Antipasti
by Coffee-Flavored Fate
Summary: A collection of one-shots, scenes, and excerpts from upcoming stories, to whet your appetite for what's to come. Romerica. Rating plus title and description subject to change.
1. The Arrangement

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Please note that the opinions, thoughts, feelings, beliefs, actions and events contained within the following work of fiction do not necessarily reflect those held or endorsed by the author (sometimes, quite the opposite).**

_An explanation is in order: Y'see, I had a thought. When inspiration hits, it often refuses to go away until I have written at least a chapter of the story, or a scene which is most vivid in my mind. This means that I have quite a few drabbles, excerpts and 'first chapters' sitting in my files. __I already have several stories currently in progress, so chances are it will be quite some time before I'm able to take on any new ones. So! Instead of letting them moulder, I thought perhaps I could publish them here; and when I'm ready to tackle a new story, I'll remove the related segment from the collection and publish it seperately. Does that make sense?_

_So, this is the first installment in what will be a collection of first chapters, scenes and excerpts from upcoming stories. They'll be a bit rough and unrefined, but they'll give you a taste of what's to come. _

_To be honest, I'm not entirely sure it's a great idea; but you never know 'til you try, right?_

_I decided to kick it off with the first chapter of a story that was inspired recently. Without any further ado, I give you the first chapter of the story tentatively titled: _

_'**None So Far**._'

* * *

><p>"Ah, Arthur! You came!" Francis greeted the Englishman standing on the doorstep with excessive enthusiasm. "<em>C'est bonne<em>, now we are all here! And you've brought wine! And flowers!"

"It's customary to bring a gift to your host." Arthur responded a little gruffly, handing them over.

"Aren't you sweet." Francis simpered, and ushered his guest inside. "Come, into the garden. It's such a _beautiful_ morning, no? I was thinking we could-"

"What is _he_ doing here." Arthur growled, stopping in his tracks at the sight of the man already sitting at the table in the garden. "You didn't tell me-"

"Now, now." Francis flapped his hand dismissively, interrupting his complaints. "I'm sure you two can be civil for the course of one simple breakfast, hmm? We're all gentlemen here, are we not?"

"_I'm_ a gentleman." Arthur muttered as they approached the table. "_He's_ a brigand and a-"

"Arthur Kirkland! How good to see you!" Antonio greeted cheerfully, waving from his seat at the table. "I didn't know you were coming, too! Isn't it a lovely morning?"

"It was until I saw you." Arthur muttered under his breath, and smiled tightly. "Yes. Isn't it."  
>"Arthur brought wine. Be a dear and open it for us, Antonio?" Francis handed the bottle to his guest to open, and waved his other guest to a chair, arranging the flowers into a vase he'd conjured from apparently nowhere. "Sit down, Arthur, I'll pour you some tea in a moment." Flowers arranged to his satisfaction, he set the vase in the center of the table, and busied himself with the tea things, chattering amiably all the while. "I was just saying to Arthur that I'm sure you two can enjoy a simple breakfast together without incident; don't you agree?"<p>

"Of course we can." Antonio agreed amicably, expertly popping the cork. "All business aside, we're just men, no?"

"Some of us are backstabbing, cutthroat bastards." Arthur grumbled, frowning across the table at his sometime-rival as he accepted a cup of tea.

"That's certainly true." Antonio acknowledged, handing the bottle to Francis, his smile taking on a sharp edge. "But I can overlook your faults for now. It's just one breakfast, after all."

"Now see here," Arthur nearly slammed his cup into the saucer, sending most of the tea sloshing over the rim. "I don't have to take this sort of lip from _you_ of all people. I didn't even know you were going to _be_ here, I wouldn't have _come _to this ridiculous breakfast if I had known."

"Arthur, my china." Francis chided mildly, handing Antonio a cup of tea as well. "This is my favourite tablecloth, too."

"That's fine with me." Antonio answered cheerfully as he accepted his cup. "I don't mind if you leave, hm? Francis and I can have a lovely, peaceful breakfast without you."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you." Arthur accused, using his napkin to mop up the tea he'd spilled. "Always looking for a way to get one up on me. Well let me tell you-"

"Boys, boys!" Francis fluttered, hands over his heart. "There's no need to fight over little old me. After all, love is meant to be shared, is it not? I love both of you equally, do not worry~!"

Antonio just laughed, but Arthur flushed, spluttering. "I- don't be ridiculous, you damn idiot! This has nothing to do with you!"

"Arthur, darling, don't be shy." Francis leaned on his friend's shoulder, fluttering his lashes. "Love is nothing to be ashamed of. I understand perfectly- I'm quite a catch!"

"You two do look very cute together." Antonio offered, chuckling into his cup as Arthur coloured furiously.

"I haven't come here to be made fun of." Arthur stood stiffly, drawing himself up with all the _hauteur _he could muster. "If you're just going to make a mockery of me, then I shall take my leave."

"Arthur, sit down." Francis ordered, his tone brooking no refusal. Arthur sat, somewhat reluctantly, and Francis poured him a new cup of tea. "I only tease you because you make it so _easy_, _mon cher_. I invited you —and Antonio, so you'll have to get used to it— here because I enjoy your company, and wanted to share a pleasant meal together with my friends, _without_ any fighting or silly rivalries. That's not too much to ask, I think, do you?"

Arthur muttered something unintelligible that could be taken as an agreement, sipping his tea. Francis smiled in approval, handing him a plate of crepes filled with fruit and cream.

"Now," He said once everyone was served, seating himself. "Let's catch up, hmm? It's been quite a while since we've seen each other, what with one thing and another. What has everyone been doing lately?"

The sort of small talk customary in such situations ensued. It surprisingly remained civil, and even bordered on relaxed and friendly, aided by the fact that Francis' idea of 'catching up' meant telling everyone all the amazing and wonderful things he had done or said since he'd seen them last. Since he had little to do with the others' 'work' on the whole, it effectively diffused any tensions on that front.

The rum he'd slipped into the tea didn't hurt, either.

After an hour or so, Antonio and Arthur were quite tipsy and rather more pleasantly inclined toward one another. The conversation turned nostalgic, and they began to reminisce about the simpler times of their childhood.

Which was exactly what Francis had wanted.

"...and then of course I fell off the damn thing. Never did get used to those." Arthur chuckled, and hiccupped, holding out his empty teacup for a refill.

Antonio chuckled, too, pouring his sometime-rival more of the doctored tea, topping off his own cup as well. "Still, at least you had the opportunity to try. We never had them in my neighborhood."

"Oh? Well, if you'd like you're welcome to mine." Arthur offered, generous in his inebriation. "I've still got it around somewhere."

"I think I'm a little big for them now, but that's very kind of you!" Antonio laughed, slapping his back. "You're an unexpectedly nice guy, Kirkland!"

"Speaking of unexpectedly nice," Francis jumped in, deciding the two were sufficiently loosened up for his purposes, "I've been working on a new cake. I'd like you two to be the first to try it, hm? Here you go," he set a plate of cake in front of each, "let me know what you think. Don't hold back!"

"It's very good." Arthur said, chewing thoughtfully. "Not too sweet."

"Mmm. It's so light and moist!" Antonio closed his eyes, humming thoughtfully. "And is that lemon zest?"

"It is." Francis nodded, pouring glasses of wine to go with the cake. "I was thinking it would make a lovely wedding cake!"

"It _would!_" Antonio agreed wholeheartedly.

"Who exactly is getting married?" Arthur asked, frown returning.

"Oh, I've just been thinking, lately." Francis smiled, leaning onto the table, chin in hand. "I saw the most adorable mock wedding not too long ago. One of the neighbors was having a tea party, and you know what the theme was? Weddings! The mothers brought their children, and dressed them in white dresses and little suits- it was the cutest thing, you should have seen it!"

"Awwww!" Antonio mooned, waving gesturing with his fork. "I remember when the mothers in my neighborhood used to do that. It was so adorable! All those tiny little brides and grooms, it was the cutest thing! I haven't seen one in a while, though."

"Yes, they used to have them around here, too, but this was the first I've seen in a while. It brought back so many sweet memories~." Francis sighed nostalgically.

"Sounds ridiculous to me." Arthur rolled his eyes, frowning. "Who in their right mind would do something like that to children? _Honestly_."

"It's all in fun, Arthur. Part of the fun of having children is dressing them up, _non?_ Those little faces, those little tiny dresses! So cute!"

"Ahhh," Antonio sighed, leaning his elbows on the table. "I wish I could have seen it! It must have been _adorable_."

"It was!" Francis agreed. "If only we had children, we could hold a little wedding of our own! Ahhh~, alas, we're all lonely bachelors."

"So true." Antonio nodded. "But at least we're bachelors together! We'll always have each other, Francis."

"Oh, Antonio, you're so right." Francis reached across the table to grab his friend's hands, cupping them in his. "We may be forever alone, but at least we're alone together!"

"Francis~!"

"Antonio~!"

"Franc-"

"Not to interrupt your little 'mutual appreciation society'," Arthur interjected, irritated, "but _I'm_ not alone. I may be a bachelor, but I _have_ a child. And if I'm not mistaken, 'Antonio~', you do as well."

"That's right, I do!" Antonio realized, releasing Francis' hands. "My little Lovino would make a lovely bride!"

Arthur blinked. "...Isn't your child a boy?"

"Bah." Antonio waved dismissively. "It doesn't matter when they're little! He'd make an _adorable_ little girl!"

"You're demented." Arthur stated, shaking his head.

"Actually, Antonio darling, I was thinking Arthur's little boy would be the bride." Francis said, rummaging under the table. "And I was hoping Lovino would be our groom."

"My little Lovino, a groom?" Antonio clasped his hands, teary-eyed. "They grow up so fast!"

"What are you _talking _about?" Arthur put down his cup, glancing between the madmen he was sharing a table with. "'Bride'? 'Groom'? They're _children!_ And Alfred is a _boy_." He added, frown deepening. "He can't be a _bride_. It isn't done."

"Arthur, Arthur! You need to loosen up, see the possibilities!" Francis chided, opening the box he'd retrieved from under the table and reaching inside. "Look at this and tell me you can't imagine Alfred wearing it." He produced a miniature wedding gown, all lace and white ribbons and ruffled silk. "Wouldn't it be _adorable?"_

"But it's a _dress_." Arthur protested, staring at the (admittedly adorable) confection in question. "And where did you get that, anyway?"

"Pshh, details." Francis waved aside his protestations and questions. "You're thinking too much, Arthur! You always do, that's why you're such a bitter man. Stop thinking, and _feel_ for once!"

"I'm not bitter." Arthur protested weakly. Francis rolled his eyes, and scooted over to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend, thrusting the dress into his hands. "_Look_ at it, Arthur, and open your mind! Can't you just see little Alfred in it? Imagine him dressed up in all these tasteful little ruffles and lace, with little white slippers... little flowers in his hair, holding an _adorable_ little bouquet in his hands; and to top it all off, a pure white veil. Can't you _see_ it?"

"Ah..." Arthur's eyes went wide at the mental image his friend painted, and he blushed. "Well...I _suppose_ it wouldn't hurt...he _is_ very young..."

"I knew you'd agree." Francis smiled warmly, patting his shoulder. He turned to Antonio, pulling a little suit out of the box and holding it out. "Now, Antonio, here's the suit for our little groom. You go and get Lovino ready, and Arthur, you go and fetch Alfred, and we'll meet back here in the garden, _comprenez-vous?_"

"And what are you going to be doing?" Arthur asked, suspicion colouring his voice more out of habit than anything else, as he was still distracted by the image of his son as a bride.

"Preparing things for the wedding, of course." Francis answered, starting to clear the table. "There's so much to do! I have to prepare the arch and get the decorations up, and get out the lanterns and oh! I'll be terribly busy."

"This suit is so tiny!" Antonio crowed delightedly, turning it over and over in his hands. "Lovi's going to be _so cute!_ I can hardly wait!"

"Oh! I nearly forgot." Francis exclaimed, as his friends rose from the table, and dove back under it. "Hold on one moment! Now where did I... Ah-_ha!_ There it is~." He came back into view, waving a parchment over his head with one hand, holding a pen in the other. "We have to sign the marriage contract!"

"Ohh, good idea!" Antonio reached for the pen. "You wouldn't want to forget that!"

"_Excuse me_?" Arthur balked, doubts rising once more. "Why would you need a marriage contract for this?"

"To make it more authentic, of course!" Francis explained as if it was obvious. "What's a marriage without a contract?"

"Not a marriage at all." Antonio agreed as he signed the parchment.

"But it's _not_ a marriage. It's just pretend." Arthur frowned in confusion, ready to refuse. "...Isn't it? I don't-"

"There, all done!" Antonio announced as he straightened, handing pen and parchment back to Francis.

"Oh my, so many titles." Francis said, deeply impressed as he looked over the contract. "You're a _very_ powerful man, aren't you?"

"Of course I am." Antonio set his hands on his hips, swelling with pride. "I do have my own empire, after all."

"Oh _my_." Francis simpered theatrically, lowering his lashes and gazing up at Antonio admiringly. Arthur scowled in rising irritation and downed his glass of wine, untouched 'til now. "That's _so_ impressive, Antonio! It must be very hard, being so _powerful_. It seems like a lot of pressure, no?"

"Not at all!" Antonio grinned with easy confidence. "Some people may find it stressful, but it comes easy for me!"

"You must be very strong." Francis leaned in, laying it on thick. "Strong _and_ powerful."

"I guess I am!" Antonio laughed, soaking it up.

"Give me that." Arthur snarled, snatching the contract from Francis' hands, thrusting the dress at his friend to hold as he signed it, all caution overridden in his desire to one-up his rival. "_There_."He said finally, signing his last title with a flourish (two more, he noted smugly, than Antonio), and slammed the parchment down in front of the others. "How's _that_ for power, frog!"

"Ooohhh~" Francis swooned, as he and Antonio leaned over the contract. "So many titles! He has even more than you, Antonio!"

"That's right." Arthur huffed victoriously, satisfied that he'd won this particular little contest. "Carriedo's not the only one here with an empire of his own."

"We're both very powerful men." Antonio nodded, impressed. "Just _think_, Arthur- with all your power and mine, once our children are married, our family will rule the world!"

"Hm." Arthur rubbed his chin, his alchohol-fuzzed mind processing that thought. "Ruling the world, eh? I can't say I don't like the sound of that."

"No-one's going to be ruling anything if we don't get on with this wedding." Francis reminded them, amused by the ease of his success. He rolled up the contract and tied it with a ribbon, saying, "Now, why don't you two go and get the little darlings, hmm? I'll have everything ready when you return."

"I'll be right back with Lovino!" Antonio waved, hurrying away.

Arthur turned, but paused, remembering, "Ah- I forgot the dress for Alfred."

"Ah-ah-ah," Francis denied, holding it away from him. "I'll be keeping this right here. As powerful as you may be, my dear Arthur, you know _nothing_ about things like dresses and veils and ribbons and flowers. I'll be preparing our little bride when he arrives. You just worry about getting him here, hm?"

"Oh. I suppose you're right." Arthur nodded. Now that he thought about it, he didn't want to have to deal with stuffing the child into all those ribbons and baffling feminine things. He really wasn't sure where everything went, anyway.

"Of with you then, and hurry back." Francis encouraged, pushing him out the door. "Bring our little bride here straightaway. I need time to make him ready!"

"Okay, okay." Arthur agreed, wobbling a little as he set out to fetch his son. "I'll return shortly with the boy." He blinked muzzily up at the sky, throwing up his arms in grand announcement. "Ruling the world! Muahahaha!"

"Arthur! Stop terrorizing my neighbors, and get on with it!"

* * *

><p>Francis was just putting the finishing touches on the preparations when Arthur arrived carrying his son, who had fallen asleep on the way over.<p>

"This is all rather elaborate, isn't it?" Arthur remarked as he handed the child over. He looked around in mild awe at at the wreaths and garlands, the petal-strewn pathway leading to the exquisitely decorated arch, the lanterns strung from the boughs of flowering trees. It was hard to believe Francis had time to do all this in the short time he'd been gone. He blinked at a long table off to the side, barely noticing the small feast and bottles of champagne it bore in favour of the huge, tiered wedding cake which dominated the center, and his brows furrowed, suspicion rising. "How long have you been _planning_ this?"

"What, this?" Francis glanced around the garden, gathering the sleeping child in his arms. "Don't be silly, Arthur, I've had it for _ages_. This is a perfectly spontaneous event."

"But..." Arthur hesitated. "What about the marriage contract? Why would you have it if you hadn't-"

"Oh, _Arthur_." Francis rolled his eyes, exasperated. "_Really_. I have _tons_ of those laying around, you silly man. I _am_ a registered officiant in several countries, you know. I join couples in holy matrimony all the _time_."

"Well... I suppose that's true." Arthur acknowledged.

"_Absolutement. _Or did you think I'd somehow _manipulated_ you into marrying off your only son to Antonio's little boy, in hopes that bringing your families together will end this ridiculous rivalry between my two favourite men once and for all?" Francis teased. "That's a bit farfetched, non? Someone like _moi_, pulling the wool over _your_ eyes? _You_, the _powerful_ and _experienced_ Arthur Kirkland?" He fluttered his lashes. "You'd see right through me in an instant."

"Hahaha, it _is_ a bit silly, when you put it like that." Arthur chuckled, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment.

"You're too suspicious sometimes, _mon couer_. Must be the instincts of a powerful man working overtime, hmm?" Francis tossed his hair, winking. "You know me, Arthur. I just _love_ weddings. Now, I'll just go wake our little bride and get him ready. There's tea and crumpets next to the wedding cake, help yourself while you wait~!"

Arthur made his way over to the table, pouring himself a cup while he admired the elaborate wedding cake. Really, five tiers? Ridiculous. But also so very Francis. He shook his head, and paused. Wait- how on earth could Francis have had this cake 'just laying around'? Something like this _had_ to have taken a while to prepare, and he'd only been gone a short while, so...no, no. He shook his head again. Francis was right, he _was_ being too suspicious. His business mind was working overtime, no doubt. People were always telling him he needed to relax, have a little fun; and maybe...maybe they were right. Well, today he was going to do just that. After all, Francis obviously had put a lot of effort into this little spontaneous event. No harm in enjoying the results of his friend's labours, hm? He bit into a crumpet. Oooh, gooseberry filling! His favourite!

* * *

><p>"Roma, stop fiddling with your collar." Antonio chided, peeling his son's hands away from the neck of his suit. "You'll mess it up! You want to look good for your wedding, don't you?"<p>

"It itches, dammit." Lovino protested, lips pursing in his customary pout. "And I don't see why I suddenly have to get married, anyway. It's _stupid_."

"Now Lovino, we knew this day would come." Antonio patted his head. "You should be excited! A wedding is a happy occasion!"

"Maybe for you, bastard." Lovino muttered under his breath. "_You're_ not the one being sold off to some stranger for power." He'd known he was probably going to end up in an arranged marriage someday, but he'd been expecting it to be much later in life. Sometime after puberty, at the very least.

"Ahhh, you're so grown up." Antonio sighed, with tears in his eyes. "Soon my little Lovi will be leaving home and starting a new life with his lovely wife!"

"...Just what are you expecting me to do?" Lovino asked, frowning incredulously. "You know I'm still a kid, right?"

"That's right. Don't you forget it. You're not allowed to leave so soon! I won't allow it!" Antonio wiped his eyes, sniffling. "But you grow up so fast! Getting married already! My little Lovi, a groom!"

"..." Lovino could only stare at his father, speechless in the face of this fresh idiocy.

"Ah, but such an adorable little groom you are!" Antonio continued, brightening. "So handsome! Just _wait_ 'til Francis sees you! He'll be so impressed!"

"Just who am I marrying, anyway?" Lovino wondered, curious as to which of his father's business partners had conned his father into this arranged marriage. Must have been a pretty cutthroat bastard, to not care that he was only a child.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, didn't I? Arthur Kirkland's-"

"_Kirkland?"_ Lovino interrupted, taken aback. "I'm marrying _Kirkland's_ kid? I thought you two hated each other!"

"We've had our differences in the past," Antonio allowed, vastly underplaying years of bloody rivalry, "but we've put all that aside for the wedding. Just think, Lovi, once you're married, you and your bride will rule the known world! Isn't that _wonderful?_"

"I don't give a damn about that, stupid." Lovino followed along, eyes on the soft leather of his boots, mind working rapidly. _Arthur Kirkland? _Now it all made sense. He hadn't even known Kirkland _had_ a daughter, but it was just like the bastard to be heartless enough to push his daughter into an arranged marriage for more power.

He only hoped the apple fell a long, long way away from that particular tree.

* * *

><p>"Ohhhh, you look absolutely <em>adorable!<em>" Francis cooed, admiring his handiwork. "Now sit still for just a little while longer so I can pin these flowers in your hair, that's a good boy."

"Okay~." Alfred agreed, trying not to fidget while his hair was tugged and twisted and things poked his scalp. "Uncle Fwancis?"

"Hmm?"

"Why aw-" He paused, concentrating as he corrected, "_are_ you putting flowers in my hair? Awre we going somewhere?"

"Your lisp is improving." Francis noticed. "You're speaking so much more clearly now, Alfred!"

"Yep!" Alfred beamed, happy he'd noticed. "Awthur says listhping is 'childish and th- _s-siwly'_, so I've been working haw- _hard_!"

"I'm sure Arthur is very proud of you, _mon chaton._" Francis praised fondly, patting his head.

"Reawly?" Alfred turned his head for confirmation, brightening hopefully.

"Ah~, don't turn your head." Francis returned the blond head to its previous position, continuing, "How could he not be? You're such a good boy, hm? _Anyone_ would be proud to have such a son."

Alfred blushed happily, folding his hands in his lap so he wouldn't fiddle with the dress, and trying hard to sit still like a good boy should. He couldn't help asking, though, "So awre we going somewhere?"

"You're going to get married!" Francis answered, reaching for a ribbon. "Isn't that exciting?"

"I'm going to 'Mawwied?" Alfred repeated, brows furrowing confusedly. "Where's that?"

"Marriage isn't a place, Alfred, it's something you do." Francis corrected, tucking another flower into the golden strands. "It's a ceremony, darling. Two people joined together in holy matrimony, to love and cherish and support each other for as long as they live! It's a wonderful thing."

"It is?"

"Oh, yes! You see Alfred, in all the world there's one person meant only for you, and you're meant for only them. One person who belongs just to you. It's destiny, you see? True love! And when you meet your true love, you fall in love and get married, and spend your whole lives together. Through sickness and health, and good times and bad, sharing everything and loving and supporting each other through it all. Fighting and making up, making love and falling in love all over again. Ahh, the romance~!" He sighed, tying off another ribbon.

"But, I haven't met anyone." Alfred pointed out the flaw in Francis' explanation. "How can I get mawwied?"

"Ah! Not to worry, Alfred. I've found your true love for you." Francis carefully fixed the veil on the little head. "Some people can spend their whole lives searching for their true love- it's a very, very big world out there, _n'est-ce pas?_ But your Uncle Francis loves you and wants you to be happy, so he went out and found his little Alfred's one-and-only. Aren't you grateful? I'm so kind!"

"Thank you Uncle Fwancis." Alfred beamed, a little excited now to meet his true love. "But, how come you awren't mawwied? Haven't you found your twrue love?"

"Ahh~." Francis smiled a little mournfully. "My true love is a little stubborn, _non?_ He doesn't realise things yet. Sometimes these things take time." He sighed, tucking his own hair behind his ear. "But I will wait, and pour out my love, and wrap all his stubbornness and obliviousness up in it until someday, he will realise he loves me, too."

"Oh." Alfred thought about this, frowning a little. Uncle Francis' true love was a dummy-head. Francis was so nice! Who wouldn't love him? And he sounded so sad. Anyone that made Uncle Francis sad was stupid. "But, why don't you just tewll him? He'll understand then, won't he?"

"If only he would." Francis sighed. "I've tried, but he just...doesn't understand."

"Uncle Fwancis, youwr twrue love is a dummy-head."

Francis snorted, laughing. "Yes, yes he is."

"Why do you love him, then? Can you _reawly_ have only one twue love?" Alfred pressed, doubtfully. Francis had said there was only one for everybody, but how could there be only one person for you in the whole world? You might never find them! "Can't you find a new one?"

"Mm, I probably could." Francis acknowledged, with a wry little internal sigh. Alfred, though usually quite oblivious, could be surprisingly intuitive at the most inconvenient moments. Especially for truths you didn't want him to see. "You're right. There are many loves, but... some things are worth waiting for, Alfred. You'll understand when you're older. The heart wants what it wants, and sometimes love is true because you make it so."

"Oh." Alfred didn't really understand Francis' answer, but remembered it anyway, just in case it was important. "So did you _reawly_ find my twrue love, Uncle Fwancis?"

"Of course I found your true love! And if I didn't, you can make it so." Francis assured in a confident, sing-song voice, knowing Alfred would listen more to his tone than his words that way. He came around to kneel before Alfred, adjusting the veil, adding more seriously, "Now, Alfred, I want you to remember- you might not love each other at first, hm? You don't know each other yet, after all. But with time and patience, you can learn to love each other _very_ much."

"Yes Uncle Fwancis." Alfred said obediently.

Francis exhaled deeply, taking the little face in his hands. He looked into the honest, earnest blue eyes that stared back at him, and his lips quirked up, and he murmured, "_À coeur vaillant rien d'impossible,_ hm? If it's you, I think it'll be alright."

"Uncle Fwancis?" Alfred asked, not understanding.

"Nothing, darling, nothing." Francis pressed a kiss to the little forehead, before pulling the veil down over the tiny face. "Now, let's go show your father how beautiful you are, hmm?"

"Okay~!"

* * *

><p>"Oooohhhhhh isn't that just <em>darling<em>!" Francis' excited squeal upon seeing Lovino could very nearly have shattered glass. He pounced upon the child, taking his hand and dragging him into the house to make the final preparations to the little groom, exclaiming delightedly all the while. "Oh my oh my oh my look at youuu~! _Comme il est beau! _So _dashing!_ Ahhhh~ it will be love at first sight!"

"O-oh course it will, bastard!" Lovino asserted, suddenly nervous. It was starting to hit him- he was getting _married!_ Right _now._ It seemed unreal. Barely an hour ago he'd been catching caterpillars out in the tomato plants, and all of a sudden he was suited up and marrying someone he hadn't even _met_ yet. What if they didn't like each other? Wh-what if, what if she didn't like _him? _His hands started to sweat, so he crossed his arms, surrepticiously wiping his palms on his sleeves. "I, I, I'm _super_ lovable, dammit! ...r-right?"

"Absolutely, little Lovino, _sans doute_." Francis assured him, going down on one knee to pin a flower to his chest. "Are you nervous_, ma chatte_?"

"No." Lovino lied, staring at his feet.

"That's good." Francis patted his shoulder kindly, and began fussing with his hair. "Because there is nothing to fear, hm? Your Uncle Francis has chosen the _perfect_ bride for you, my little love. A match made in heaven, hm?"

Lovino looked up, brows furrowing. "_You_ did?"

"But of course!" Francis smiled, lifting the boy's chin with a finger. "Who else?"

"Oh." Lovino's lips pursed as he thought about this. To be honest, he was a little relieved. Antonio was kind of an idiot sometimes and could easily have been tricked into marrying him off to...well, _anyone_. Uncle Francis might be a little (a _lot_) perverted, but he was very good at reading people, and he always said that love was the most important thing in the world. Lovino would never, ever admit it out loud, but he trusted Francis' judgement in these matters as much as he trusted anyone's. Maybe more. But..."A-antonio said...marrying...Kirkland's..." He muttered almost unintelligibly, flushing.

"Ah." Francis nodded, understanding. "Your father told you it was arranged with Arthur, and you were thinking he may have been tricked into something? That the marriage would not be a happy one, perhaps?"

Lovino flushed deeper, eyes sliding off to the side. "M-maybe, a little."

"Lucky for you your Uncle Francis is looking out for you, hm?" Francis winked, and stood, taking his hand. "No one could have chosen better." He led him over to a cabinet, which he opened, pulling out an ornate jewelry box, and sat, lifting the lid as he changed the subject. "Speaking of choosing, why don't you help me choose the rings, hmm? I know you have an eye for these things."

"Uhuh. I'm the best there is." Lovino nodded, frowning thoughtfully at the rows of rings displayed inside. "Besides, if I left it to you I'd end up with something so gaudy I'd be embarrassed to wear it, dammit."

"Such cheek!" Francis sniffed, mock wounded, and pulled the box away, standing and making as if to leave. "Just for that, I should let Arthur choose them."

"What? No!" Lovino exclaimed, horrified, and clung to Francis' trousers, backpedalling furiously. "I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry! Don't make me wear something that bastard chooses, Uncle Francis, please! His taste is _terrible!"_

Francis paused, pretending to consider it. "You promise to be nice to me, hm? And be a good boy during the ceremony?"

"I promise, dammit! I'll be good!"

"Alright, since you promised." Francis chuckled, sitting back down and opening the box once more. "Now hurry up and choose the rings, hm? There's no telling what Arthur and your father are getting up to in our absence."

* * *

><p>Lovino having been whisked away the moment they'd arrived, Antonio had wandered into the garden to have some tea and crumpets while he waited, and found Arthur and Alfred waiting there before him. The moment he'd laid eyes on Alfred as a little bride, Antonio had been so overwhelmed that he spent several speechless moments twitching and flailing frantically, emitting high-pitched squeaking noises. Arthur had been convinced at first that he was suffering some sort of seizure, until Antonio had calmed sufficiently to regain the power of speech, and he realized from the ensuing stream of praise and adoration that the man was simply overcome by the sight of his son in a dress. He could understand that, as he'd had a...similar reaction himself. In a much more dignified fashion, of course.<p>

Sending Alfred to sit quietly in a seat a little ways away, Arthur opened one of the many bottles of champagne lined up on the table and poured the man a drink to settle his nerves. He'd poured one for himself as well, since, well, he was feeling the need of it after all this...this whatever this was. It was starting to feel a little too much like a real wedding for his liking, despite his reassurances to himself that it was only a little harmless play-acting. No doubt he'd feel better after a little drink.

And once they'd finished, Antonio had proposed a toast, in celebration of the occasion, and that had seemed like a good idea, so he'd poured them both another drink. And then Antonio had suggested that Arthur should propose a toast, and the bubbles in his champagne had thought that was a brilliant idea. And then there'd been another toast, and another. And another, and then that bottle was done, so they'd opened a second, because there were such a lot of things that needed toasting.

And then a third.

Really, it was surprising how quickly two men could go through a few bottles of champagne.

"To our future!" Antonio slurred slightly, face flushed, raising his glass in another toast.

"Our future!" Arthur lifted his glass a little clumsily, champagne sloshing over his fingers, and they tossed back their drinks. "Ano-" he hiccuped, "another toashst?"

"I, I think it's yourerer turn." Antonio paused, trying to decide which of the four glasses floating in front of him to fill first. Funny, there'd only been two earlier, hadn't there? He squinted one eye closed. Ah, there- two glasses again. He tilted the bottle, overshooting slightly, but managing to get most of the liquid into one glass, then the other.

"So it is. Ah, thank you." Arthur stared at his glass, trying to remember what they were toasting. "Wh, what should I toasht?"

Antonio tilted his head thoughtfully, blinking slowly at nothing in particular. "Your daughter?"

"My daughter!" Arthur agreed, thrusting his glass in the air.

"Your daughter!" Antonio saluted, and they guzzled greedily.

Arthur lowered his glass with a gasp, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and leaned against his drinking partner, confessing, "I didn' know I h, had a daughter."

"Sshure you do." Antonio assured him, slinging his arm around Arthur's shoulders as he looked around. He waved his glass vaguely at a chair at the other end of the table. "Over...over there."

Arthur grunted, turning his head to stare at the small child in the white dress, sitting in the chair Antonio had indicated, playing quietly with the tableware. "Oh. So I do."

"Sh's verr', verr' cute." Antonio slurred, resting his forehead on Arthur's shoulder.

"Sh's gettin' ma, married." Arthur informed him solemnly.

"Ohh!" Antonio exclaimed drunkenly. "Thas', thas's something to ce, celebrate! Have a drrrrink." He lifted the bottle to pour another glass, shaking it perplexedly when nothing came out.

"S', s'empty." Arthur observed sadly.

Antonio lifted it to his eye, peering down the neck, and lowered it with a sigh. "It ish." He tossed it over his shoulder into a rosebush, and reached for another bottle. "But, we're in l-luck! There'shsh more!"

"Sh' a miracle!" Arthur exclaimed. "Like the loafsh and the fishshes!"

"To miracleshs!" Antonio waved the bottle.

"Miraclesh!" Arthur waved his empty glass. They lifted corked bottle and empty glass to their lips, slurping expectantly.

And lowered them, frowning.

"'S gone." Antonio said sorrowfully.

"We, we drank the miracle." Arthur agreed, with equal sorrow.

"Alll gooone~." Antonio sang, swinging the bottle slowly.

"Alll gone." Arthur sighed, tipping his glass upside down. "No morrre miracle." They lowered their heads, mournfully contemplating the transitory nature of all things, especially alchohol.

Which is how Francis found them. "What on _earth-"_ He exclaimed, interrupting their mourning. He gaped at the scene before him, taking in their rumpled, drunken state, the empty bottles of champagne scattered around their feet, and flailed in disbelief, unsure what to address first. "_What_-, You-," He exhaled frustratedly, pinching the bridge of his nose, and waved in dismissal. "You know what? I don't even want to know. Let's just...get on with the wedding. Lovino, you take your father and go and stand next to the arch." Lovino nodded, taking his father's hand and dragging him along. "Al, honey, you come with me. Arthur, you too. Now," He knelt down, fussing with the bouquet in Alfred's hands, and lowered his voice to address him privately, "your father's supposed to walk you up the aisle, but I don't think he can walk straight right now so it looks like you'll have to be walking _him_, okay?" Alfred nodded, eyes wide behind his veil. "Just hold onto his hand until you get up to the arch." He gestured to the arch at the end of the pathway. "I'll tell you what to do from there. Are you nervous?"

"A little." Alfred confessed, looking down.

"If it makes you feel any better, Lovino's just as nervous as you are." Francis chuckled, patting his hand. Lovino? Alfred leaned sideways to peer curiously at the boy at the end of the aisle, who _did_ look a little nervous. "But don't worry, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"Okay." Alfred smiled bravely, taking hold of his father's hand.

"Good boy." Francis winked, and stood. "I'm going to go wait at the arch, and when I nod to you, you lead your father up the aisle, understand?"

"Yes." Alfred held his bouquet tightly, watching as Francis took his place at the end of the aisle, shoulders straight, hands folded, looking very official in his robes, and nodded, smiling encouragingly. Recognising his cue, Alfred set off down the aisle, holding fast to his father's hand.

* * *

><p>Nervous, heart thudding, palms sweaty, Lovino stood next to his father, watching the small veiled figure advancing towards him up the aisle with rising trepidation. This was happening. He was getting <em>married<em>. In a few seconds she would be here, a few more and the ceremony would begin, and in a few minutes from now they'd be married, and then he'd be spending his whole life with this person coming up the aisle. He was going to have a _wife_. He was going to be a _husband_.

And they hadn't even been _introduced_ yet.

He wasn't sure he was ready for this.

He hoped she liked tomatoes.

Finally (far too soon) she took her place beside him, released her father's hand, and turned her head to look up at Francis, who smiled fondly. "_Lift your veil_." Francis mouthed, miming the action. The little bride fumbled with the gauzy material, nearly getting her bouquet and arms caught up in it. Francis nudged Lovino's shoulder, and tilted his head significantly to indicate that Lovino should lend his assistance. He stepped forward, heart pounding, and untangled the veil, lifting it clear of her face.

She looked up at him, eyes and nose crinkling in a smile of thanks.

And his heart stopped.

She was _beautiful_.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. There were vows, which he'd repeated automatically, and at some point they'd exchanged rings, which Francis had put on chains for them to wear around their necks since they were too big for their fingers. Francis had been saying something about marriage and love, and he had the vague impression that his father had been crying somewhere in the background; but he couldn't remember anything in detail, except for his bride's face.

And the kiss. He remembered the kiss. He'd nearly fainted.

His first kiss! It'd lasted barely a fraction of a second, true, and she'd had to kiss _him_ 'cause he'd missed his cue, but it was soft and sweet and she'd smelled of flowers and sunlight and earth, and then it was over, leaving him dizzy. He didn't remember anything after that.

His lips _still_ tingled.

He followed the small white figure dazedly down the aisle, and they stood together on the grass while Uncle Francis and their fathers gathered together, presumably to talk about business matters and finalize the papers this whole arranged marriage would call for. He stared at her for a while, trying to think of something to say. She stood next to him playing curiously with her necklace, and looking around the garden at the flowers and things. She glanced up, smiling, when a bird flew overhead, and turned to him, grabbing his hand, chattering excitedly; and all thought fled at her touch. She pointed to where it had flown, but he couldn't look away, not with the way her excitement was making her eyes sparkle, and her whole face light up. After a few moments the bird was gone, and she was looking around the garden again, curious eyes taking it all in. Her gaze wandered over to where the adults clustered together, and she tilted her head, causing a golden strand of hair to come loose, brushing the curve of her ear. Her mouth moved, and she turned to him, brows furrowing in puzzlement. He realized she'd been talking to him, asked him a question, but he couldn't remember what. He stammered some kind of response, not really sure what he was saying. She blinked, looking taken aback, one side of her mouth pulling back uncertainly.

Shit, what had he said? He tried frantically to remember.

Then her hand was gone from his, and she was moving away, leaving him to stare after her, wondering what had happened and how he could fix it.

* * *

><p>"That was such a beautiful wedding." Antonio wept openly as he signed the marriage certificate after the ceremony, putting his name on the witness line next to Arthur's.<p>

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Arthur sniffed, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. "I, I must confess I was... rather moved by the vows."

"And when they exchanged the rings." Antonio sighed, eyes shimmering. "I bawled like a baby."

"I got a little teary-eyed myself." Arthur admitted, tucking his handkerchief into his pocket.

"And when they kissed! So sweet! So innocent!"

"Quite touching, wasn't it? They looked like little cherubs." Arthur agreed, voice growing rough, and pulled his handkerchief back out as his eyes welled over.

"I can't believe our little babies are married." Antonio sniffled, tearing up once more.

"I know. It seems like only yesterday they were in diapers." Arthur reminisced, blowing his nose. He sighed, rallying. "Come now," he patted Antonio's shoulder companionably, "we knew this day would come someday. There's no use crying about it, eh? Let's pull ourselves together, old chap. It's not the end of the world."

"You're right, you're right." Antonio wiped away his tears, and gave him a watery smile. "It's a happy occasion, isn't it? We should be celebrating! Let's have a drink."

"Good idea." Arthur encouraged. "I could do with a drink, myself. A couple of good, stiff draughts and we'll be right as rain."

"Let's make a toast!" Antonio suggested, as they made a beeline for the champagne.

"I say, that's a brilliant idea!"

Francis shook his head, smiling to himself as he collected the marriage certificate and waved it, waiting for the ink to dry. Honestly, sometimes those two made it too easy. But, that was part of their charm. There was a tug at his robe, and he looked down to see Alfred staring up at him.

"Uncle Fwancis, I don't think Wubino likes me."

"Oh? What makes you say that, Alfred?"

"I keep twrying to talk to him, but he won't _say_ anything." Alfred explained, brows forrowing perplexedly, and looked over his shoulder. "He just keeps _stawring_."

Francis followed his gaze to where Lovino stood staring, wide-eyed and blushing, at his little bride. He pretended to cough to cover his laughter, and patted Alfred's head, careful not to dislodge the flowers. "Lovino's just a little shy, Alfred. I'm sure he likes you just fine."

"He called me a bastowd." Alfred confessed in a whisper, frowning. "He said a _bad word_."

Francis chuckled, kneeling down to Alfred's level. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it. He's a bit rough around the edges, I'll admit." He confided, smiling fondly. "But he's not a bad boy. It's just that he gets very flustered and embarrassed, and doesn't know how to handle it, so he acts tough to cover it up."

"Oh." Alfred nodded, understanding. "Like Awthur."

"Exactly." Francis affirmed. "But he's a good boy at heart. And very sweet." He added, winking. "Just be yourself, and I'm sure in no time at all you'll have him wrapped around your little finger."

Alfred glanced down at his pinky, and back up at Francis, confused. Why would he want that? "I think he's too big, Uncle Fwancis."

"Just an expression, _mon petit. _It means he'll _adore_ you." Alfred nodded automatically, not really understanding. "Now, why don't you go and try and talk to him again, hm? Your Uncle Francis has some things to put away, and then I'll bring you some cake, would you like that?"

"Uhhuh!" Alfred nodded, beaming. "Can I have some juice, too?"

"There's some juice on the table, right over there by the cake, do you see? Why don't you get some for yourself and Lovino, and then wait for me over by the roses, and I'll set up a little table for the both of you." Francis sighed, glancing over to the long table already set up, where Arthur and Antonio were toasting anything and everything under the sun, and added with wry resignation, "I think your fathers are having a little too much fun."

"Okay~." Alfred answered obediently, and turned, trotting back to Lovino. Francis watched him go, biting back his laughter when Lovino's eyes widened further at Alfred's approach, little hands anxiously fisting the hem of his jacket.

Nothing to worry about there, then. Looked like that would be coming along just fine. He smiled to himself, satisfaction rising, and turned to the house, tucking the certificate into his pocket.

* * *

><p>She was back! She'd come back, and apparently had forgiven him for whatever he'd done, because she was standing there in front of him and speaking to him; something about roses and cake and Uncle Francis. Lovino tried to listen, really he did, but he couldn't really hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears. She was smiling at him and toying with the ring hanging from the gold chain around her neck, her adorable little fingers playing delicately with the circle of gold. He realized she was looking at him expectantly, as if she was waiting for some kind of response. Had she asked him a question? He tried to recall what she'd been saying, but her wide, blue eyes were drawing him in and making it impossible to think and everything seemed to be in slow motion. The sunlight caressed her sun-gold hair; kissed her rosy, cherubic cheeks, bathing her in its luminescence, her pearly teeth exposed in a tentative smile, as petal-pink lips moved again, forming exquisite shapes. His stomach sank as her slim golden brows furrowed in a quizzical frown, and her face fell in disappointment— what had made her unhappy? But then she was smiling again, and moving closer, and his skin was <em>burning<em> and she laid her hand on his arm and that burned too, and her lips were moving again, forming words, and he struggled to understand but the only ones he could make out over the pounding in his ears were the last two: "'_wait here.'"_

Yes. He could do that. Anything she wanted.

He watched her cross to the table, where the exquisite little creature (his wife!) went up up on her tiptoes to grab two cups from the settings. Then she moved further down the table, where she set the cups on the table so she had her hands free to reach for a pitcher sitting next to the cake. She was too short to reach, though. It was placed too far back, near the center of the table. Despite stretching her arm to its fullest extent and going up on the toes of her little white slippers, she was only able to brush the handle with the very tips of her fingers. She stepped back from the table, hands on her hips, and huffed, pursing her lips in a thoughtful little pout. Looking around for something, she brightened upon seeing a nearby chair, and went over to it, grabbing the arm and dragging it over to where the pitcher waited. Climbing up onto the seat, she filled both glasses, spilling a little but managing to get most of the contents into the cups. Finally she set the pitcher down, and climbed down from the chair, reaching up to take the now full glasses from the table. She turned with a triumphant smile, pleased at having managed the difficult task all by herself.

And then the two men at the other end of the table jostled it, hard, and the pitcher fell, splashing its contents over her.

For a moment she stood, eyes widening in surprise as juice trickled down her face and neck, soaking into her dress. Then her face crumpled, blue eyes welling up with tears, little mouth twisting in distress, and sobbed.

"A-ah!" Alarmed, Lovino ran to the table, grabbing handfulls of napkins, and hurried over to his bride, where he began to dry her off. "D-don't cry, idiot! It's okay!"

"I-it's c-cowd." She hiccuped, shivering slightly as her chest heaved in little sobs. "I, I, I..." She looked up at him, hair plastered to her temples, tears dripping down her chin.

"You mean cold, idiot?" He asked, blotting her dress with the napkins, and she nodded.

"I'm c-cowd, W, Wu, b-bino."

"Hm." Frowning in concern, he shrugged off his jacket, pulling it over her shoulders. "Is that better, dammit?"

She nodded again, shivering a little as she tried to pull herself further into the jacket, hindered by the cups she still held. "Give me those." He said, taking them from her. "Now put your arms in the sleeves." She did so, struggling a little with the sleeves, which were too long for her. Once she had it on she rubbed her eyes with a chubby fist, and smiled at him, sniffling slightly.

"Th-thank you."

He blushed and looked away, holding out one of the glasses. "Here."

When she'd taken it, he grabbed her free hand, leading her away. "C'mon, let's get get away from here before those stupid bastards cause any more trouble."

"Okay." She agreed amiably, following along. "Uncle Fwancis said-"

"What did you do to your _dress?"_ Francis exclaimed, coming towards them over the grass, frowning at the juice-stained dress in vexation. "It's _completely_ ruined! I-"

"It's not our fault!" Lovino countered, stepping in front of his bride to scowl up at Francis. "It was those bastards who did it! They knocked the pitcher over and it spilled on the stupid dress!"

Francis blinked, torn between being amused at the way the little boy was being so protective of his 'wife' and upset over the state of the dress (he'd slaved for _ages_ making that!). "Is this true, _ma ange?_" He questioned Alfred, knowing that while Lovino would lie to protect someone he cared about (and wasn't it _adorable_ that he was already so protective of his little bride), Alfred wouldn't lie to him about something like this.

Alfred looked down, nodding his head. "But, I don't think they meaned to."

"They're stupid and they made her cold." Lovino informed him, eyes narrowing. "Yell at _them_, Uncle Francis."

"Oh, they'll get what they deserve, _mon cher_, make no mistake about that." Francis agreed, glancing irritatedly over at the two men, who were apparently having some sort of arm-wresting match at the far end of the table. He shook his head and sighed, turning to the children. "You two go and wait by the roses. I'll be right there with the cake."

"Alright." Lovino grunted in acknowledgement, and tugged on Alfred's hand. "C'mon, let's go."

"Okay~"

Francis watched them go, hands over his heart as he fawned silently. That was sooo cuuuute! He was _so_ glad he'd thought of it. Everything was turning out better than he could have hoped!

Although, he admitted to himself with an internal sigh as he left to fetch the cake, this had been the _easy_ part.

The rest depended on _them_.

* * *

><p>"Yay for cake~." Alfred sang, bouncing on his toes as they stood hand-in-hand near the roses, waiting for cake. "Uncle Fwancis makes the <em>best<em> cake. The best cake _evow_."

"He does make pretty good cake." Lovino allowed. "But my dad makes good cake, too. He's teaching me."

"You can make _cake_?" Alfred turned wide eyes on Lovino, looking at him like he'd said he could fly or something amazing like that.

"Uhuh." Lovino answered proudly, then honesty forced him to add, "Well, almost. I, I need help with the oven, but other than that, I can make them on my own!"

"_Wow_." Alfred breathed, deeply impressed. "Fwrosting and everything?"

"Yep." Lovino answered, swelling with pride.

"_Wow._" Alfred repeated, awed.

"I can cook a lot of things." Lovino informed 'her', gratified by his bride's reaction. "Antonio taught me to cook all sorts of things."

"Reawly? Awthur pwromised to show me how to make some stuff." Alfred said, adding a little sadly. "But, he's always busy at work."

Lovino shuddered a little. Kirkland's cooking 'skills' were legendary. "It's okay." He said generously, happy to have escaped potential death by food poisoning. "I'll do all the cooking. You don't have to worry about it, okay?"

"Okay!" Alfred agreed, smiling. "Can we have cake evewry day?"

"I'll have to have my dad help with the oven, but sure."

"Yay! Thank you, Wubino!"

Lovino hesitated. He hadn't really listened to her saying his name before. Apparently she had some trouble with it. "You know, you can call me 'Lovi' if it's easier."

Alfred tilted his head on the side. "Wubby?"

"Llllllovvvvvi."

Alfred's brows furrowed in concentration. "Wwwubbby."

"...Y'know, maybe you should just call me 'Roma'. My dad calls me that sometimes. After my grandfather."

"Woma?"

"...Close enough."

"You can call me 'Awl' if you want." Alfred offered, happy that they were getting along so well now.

"Your dad calls you 'Owl'?" Lovino asked, a little bemused.

"Haha no, siwly! He always calls me Awlfwred. He says nicknames awre diswrespectful, but I think they're nice."

Lovino blinked. His wife's name was 'Owlfowred'? Holy _shit_. Apparently Kirkland's naming sense was as bad as his cooking. He was definitely going to stick with 'Owl'. At least that was _sort_ of cute.

There was a loud, sustained crashing noise on the other side of the garden, followed by the tinkling of glass breaking. Both boys' heads swivelled towards the sound, but the rosebushes blocked their view.

"What was that?" Alfred wondered.

"Probably my dad. And yours." Lovino guessed, accurately.

"Do you think they're okay?" Alfred asked, going up on his tiptoes to try and see over the bush.

"Not after Uncle Francis gets ahold of them." Lovino guessed again, equally accurately. A couple of loud thudding sounds followed his statement, accompanied by muffled, swearing apologies. A couple more thuds, and everything fell silent.

"Are you ready for cake?" Francis appeared a few moments later carrying a platter and with a cloth draped over his arm, looking flushed and a little ruffled.

"Yes~!" Alfred sang, bouncing excitedly.

"It's about time, bastard." Lovino complained, hungrily eyeing the platter.

"Sorry, I got a little distracted." Francis smiled a little apologetically as he spread the cloth on the grass. "I know I said I'd set up a table, but it looks like you'll have to settle for the tablecloth for now. It'll be like a picnic, hmm?"

"They broke the table, didn't they." Lovino guessed, keeping his streak alive.

"Just one of the legs." Francis smiled tightly, setting the platter in the centre of the cloth. "I brought what was left of the cake, but there's just one plate, so you'll have to share, hm?"

"They broke the dishes, too?"

"Only most of them, the _savages_." Francis rolled his eyes heavenward, mouthing a prayer for patience. "However!" He added, a little more cheerfully, "I managed to save the top tier of the cake, just for you. _Bon appetit_, my little newlyweds! I'll be back later to check on you." He stood, pulling a ribbon from his pocket, which he used to tie back his hair, and sighed deeply. "I must go and begin cleaning up."

"Want us to help, Uncle Fwancis?" Alfred offered, to Lovino's private dismay. But Francis just chuckled, shaking his head.

"It's alright, your Uncle Francis has it all under control." He winked, waving as he left. "You just enjoy your special day, and the delicious cake I made especially for you~."

"Okay~. Hey, look Woma, there's flowers!" Alfred exclaimed, already on his knees next to the cake. "Made of fwrosting!"

"Oi, don't touch it!" Lovino caught the little wrist before chubby fingers descended on a frosting rose. "You'll get dirty! Use a fork, idiot."

"I don't have one." Alfred said, looking around the plate. "I don't think their awre any."

"There's one over here." Lovino discovered a fork under the rim of the plate, after careful exploration. "But I only see one. Francis, you idiot. How are we supposed to eat it, dammit?"

"It's okay, I can use my fingows." Alfred said philosophically, reaching for the cake once more. Lovino caught the hand in time.

"D-don't do that, Owl! You'll get dirty." He scolded.

"But I'm _awlready_ dirty." Alfred pointed out reasonably. "I got juice all over my clothes."

"That doesn't mean you have to get cake all over them too, dummy."

"Then how am I _supposed_ to eat it?" Alfred asked, brows forrowing in a frown. "You have the fowrk."

After a brief internal struggle, Lovino thrust the fork at his bride. "Here. Y, you can use it. I'll, I'll wait 'til you're done."

"Thank you, Woma!" Alfred beamed happily up at him as he accepted it.

"J-just eat the cake, bastard." Cheeks heating, Lovino looked away and sat down, crossing his arms. He blinked when a forkful of cake was thrust under his nose a few moments later, and turned his head to see 'Owl' leaning towards him, holding it out with a smile.

"We can shawre."

His flush deepened, and he opened his mouth to refuse, but all protest died on his lips at her happy smile. "A-alright." He muttered, taking the bite, eyebrows raising as he chewed. "Hm, it's good!" He exclaimed, flustered feelings forgotten in the taste of buttercream and lemon. He took the fork from her hands, reaching for another portion of cake. "Here, you try."

"I want a flower." Alfred hovered as Lovino worked, staring eagerly at the cake.

"Yeah, okay." Lovino acknowledged, making sure to scoop up one of the icing roses. "Here." Alfred leaned forward, taking the proferred bite, rose and all.

"Mmmm~!"

"Good, right?"

"It's so yummy! Hewre." He took the fork and scooped up some cake for Lovino, holding it out. "Youwr turn!"

An or so hour later the plate was empty save for a few stray crumbs; and sated and a little sleepy, they lay side-by-side on the tablecloth, watching the clouds go by.

Alfred yawned, lifting an arm to point at a particularly fluffy one overhead. "That one looks like a bunny."

"What? No it doesn't, idiot, it looks like a tomato." Lovino murmured, blinking slowly.

Alfred wrinkled his nose, tilting his head and squinting. "But it has eawrs."

"Those are tomato leaves."

"Maybe it's a tomato bunny." He decided.

Lovino looked at it, and nodded. "Okay. It's a tomato bunny."

"Tomato bunny~." Alfred sighed, yawning again, and reached for his hand. "...Woma?"

"Mm?" Lovino responded drowsily, barely able to keep his eyes open.

"I'm glad it's you." Alfred confessed, eyes drifting shut.

"...Me too." Lovino squeezed the hand in his, eyes already closed, feeling the weight of a little head settle against his shoulder as he nodded off.

Francis found them that way a while later, and indulged himself in several moments of silent adoration, taking in their little sleeping faces, mouths covered in crumbs and traces of frosting; plump, rosy cheeks glowing, their joined hands, Alfred still wrapped in Lovino's jacket, the way they were curled up together, oh! The little cherubs! If only their fathers were awake and sober enough to see this!

Eventually, he recovered his senses and carried them inside the house to clean them up, change them into night clothes and tuck them into bed, cooing internally when they reached for each others' hands once more.

"Ahh~. I've done my best for you, _mon bébés_. From here on out, it is out of my hands." He sighed a little wistfully, brushing the hair out of each tiny face in turn. "Tomorrow, your _papas_ will take you back home, and then..." He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Who can tell? Perhaps they will forget. Perhaps, you will forget." He withdrew his hand, and stepped back. "_Avec le temps, ça s'arrangera_, hm? Things will sort themselves out in time."

He turned to go, pausing at the door to look back at the two children curled up together in the bed. "_Il n'y a que les montagnes qui ne se rencontrent jamais_. That is my prayer for you." Blowing a kiss, he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

_'There are none so far apart that fate cannot bring them together.'_

* * *

><p><em>AN: It's a bit of a mess, I'll admit. I wanted to make Francis Femme!Francis in this so badly. I just seems more appropriate, don't you think? Alas, I'm reluctant to do so until the official name for his female self comes out. I'm guessing it'd just be 'Frances', since that's the female of 'Francis' in French, but still. We'll see. Don't be surprised if, when I eventually post the story, Uncle Francis has become Aunt Frances.<em>

_A little backstory for you, which in a roundabout way is the inspiration for this story. __When I was very young, about 3 and a half, my mother sent me outside to play while she was packing for our upcoming move. While I was outside, some of the neighborhood mothers called me over. They were having a little party, you see, and they'd dressed up one of their little girls in a wedding dress, and needed a groom. I was given a suit to put on, and sent out to wait for a little girl in a white lace dress, whom I was then 'married' to. Afterwards, the assorted women cooed over the 'couple', and I was given cake, and the little girl was ushered off, and I was allowed to return home, leaving me with the distinct impression that I was now married._

_We moved the next day, and I spent the next several years periodically wondering how I was supposed to find my 'wife' when I grew up, and if she was upset that I had left (I was a very serious child, in some respects). I barely remembered what she looked like (long blonde hair, very fine; green eyes, white lace dress- but I suspected she wouldn't look the same anyway once we'd grown); she'd probably have moved, and what if she'd married someone else by the time I found her? Which would be alright, of course, she very well might have forgotten after all those years that she was already married, and after all, for all she knew I'd abandoned her, never to return. _

_Concerns like these troubled me on and off for years, but over time I slowly stopped thinking about it, though I never forgot. _

_Finally, when I was about...oh, twelve? I was doing some research on wedding customs and laws (for a random project, different story entirely), and I realized that wait a second- there was no **way** that had been legal! I wasn't married, they were only play-acting!_

_Which was a weight off my shoulders, let me tell you. Spousal abandonment, intentional or not, had not sat well on my conscience. _

_Besides, I **still** hadn't figured out how I was going to find her. _


	2. Under the Roman Sun

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

_Just another quick update so you have an idea what I mean by 'excerpts and scenes'. This one I actually wrote...oh, a long, long time ago, around the time I posted chapter 10 of Educating America. It was my first try at a 'mature' scene, 'cause I wanted to see if I'd be able to write one, 'cause otherwise I'd have to change my ideas for the story. _

_This particular story was inspired because I was thinking of all the reasons I don't like slave fics, and was wondering if there was a setting in which I would be more comfortable with it. Turns out yes and no- but that contradiction will be addressed in the story. Set in Ancient Rome. AU. _

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><p>After dinner, Lovino found himself walking down to the servant's quarters, carrying a plate of fruit and bread for Alfredo. Not that he was worried about the idiot, but...he'd had so much left over when he'd finished, and he hated to waste food. It was...wasteful. It <em>certainly<em> didn't have anything to do with the wounded look that Alfredo had given him after Grandpa Roma had administered his punishment, blue eyes sad and betrayed, which did _not_ make his insides twist with guilt, dammit. Slaves were supposed to obey, that was how it worked. If they didn't, they were punished. The idiot deserved everything he got, even if he _had_ been trying to protect him.  
>And so, purely to keep from being wasteful, he tread softly down the cold marble corridor on bare feet (not that he was trying not to get caught breaking Grandpa's order; he'd just taken off his sandals 'cause it was late, and he didn't want to wake anyone up with the sound of his footfalls. He was considerate like that).<br>Finally reaching his destination, he stood silently outside of Alfredo's door, wondering if he should knock or just go in- after all, Al was _his_ slave, right? When a sound inside made him freeze. He leaned closer to the coarse wooden door, listening carefully, and there it was again- a low, pained moan. His heart beat faster, his stomach twisting in guilt and worry, now. Alfred wasn't still in pain, was he? It couldn't still hurt _that_ badly, right? The tall blond had shrugged off worse with a smile, so something like this couldn't possibly be giving him trouble. Unless...Grandpa Roma had been harsher than he'd realized? It would be just like the idiot to hide the extent of his injuries so Lovino wouldn't worry...or...or -he bit his lip, heart aching as he remembered the look the other had given him when he was lead away- maybe...maybe it wasn't just the injuries? Maybe _he'd_ hurt the blond, hurt him when he'd failed to speak up, failed to defend him to his grandfather, even though...even though...  
><em>Dammit!<em> Unable to stop himself as another guttural moan came through the door, he cracked it open, peering inside. What he saw stopped him in his tracks, yet again.  
>There in the window, the red light of a dying sun caressing his form, casting him in sharp relief against the rapidly darkening blue of the evening sky, sat Alfredo. His chin rested against his chest, eyes closed, one arm draped languidly across a raised knee. His lips were parted, panting, and a warm flush dusted the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones. A droplet of sweat trickled down his temple, and Lovino watched its path, mesmerized, as it trailed down golden skin, over the blond's jawline, down his sinuous neck, settling in the dip of his collarbone. His eyes continue down the muscular chest, rapidly rising and falling with the other's breath, the taut stomach, and he realizes that the slave's hand- that strong, warm hand, which has so often shielded him, protected him, comforted him- is moving rapidly, hidden underneath the thin blanket slung low across the other's hips.<br>His face burns as another whimpering moan reaches his ears. He grips the doorframe tightly, knees suddenly going weak. He shouldn't be watching this, it's wrong, it's private. He should leave the plate on the floor and leave. But then the other's head is thrown back, face enraptured; and his body arches, taut as a bow, a name escaping his lips like a prayer to the heavens. "_Lovino_."  
>The plate falls from nerveless fingers, crashing to the floor. Blue eyes open and the blond leaps from the window in one smooth, dangerous movement, alert and ready. His eyes widen as he catches sight of his visitor, flushed and wide-eyed outside the door.<br>Lovino can't breathe, can't think. The way he'd said his name, voice full of such _want_, such devotion...has stolen his breath, shaken him to the core. His heart aches with something he can't name. And now this man, his Alfredo (and suddenly those words have taken on a new meaning) is standing there, glistening and golden, hand still dripping with his essence, looking at him with his heart in those beautiful eyes; and Lovino isn't sure how to respond, if he _should_ respond.  
>So he does the only thing he can think of, and turns and runs.<strong><br>**

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><p><em>AN: Yeah, so. Actually, it's interesting to see how little my writing has changed in all this time (hahah yeah, it hasn't even been a year since I started writing, 'all this time' pffft of course I haven't gotten any better yet). <em>

_This story is set to start about the same time as the sequel to Educating America. So...it may be a while! But I've been doing the research and have a couple snippets and scenes down for it in the meantime. _


	3. Foreign Exchange

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_Taking a break from rewriting the next chapter of Educating America for the third time, thought I'd throw a little tidbit on the platter while the main course is simmering._

_This is a little story based on cultural differences...ha...yes. I'm planning for it to be a shorter story, two, three chapters at most. But, I planned for Educating America to be a 2k word oneshot, and Misconceptions to be an 8k word oneshot, and Futzed...well, let's just say I suck at keeping stories short._

_Still, it'll be cute and silly and fluffy, 'cause that's how Romerica rolls. _

_Tentatively titled: **Culture Clash.**_

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><p>Sniffling wetly, America reached a hand out from his blanket cocoon to snag another tissue, disregarding the ringing phone. The message machine beeped, and England's voice came over the speaker.<p>

"America, what the bloody hell are you getting up to, you daft idiot? No-one's heard from you in _days,_ you've not been answering your phone, and your brother says you've not been home. People are starting to _worry_, you sodding git. N-not _me_, of course; I'd be hard-pressed to care less, really, but you ought to at _least _give your brother a call. _He_'s quite concerned."

"A-and," He continued in a softer tone, voice understanding, "we...well, we all heard what happened from Spain. Raw luck, lad. I, I know it hurts, but hiding won't solve anything. Don't let them see you hurting, America. Show the world it doesn't matter. Stiff upper lip, and all that. It'll be right. Better to have loved and lost, eh? Other fish in the sea, you know? A-and, if you'd like someone to talk to, I'm... well, I'll be here. We can drown our sorrows in a few pints, eh? Well, that...that's all. I'll try you later. Give us a call, all right?"

Spain had told everyone what had happened, huh? So now the whole _world_ knew what an idiot he'd been. He couldn't really muster the energy to care, not with his heart hurting like this. He groaned, curling into a miserable ball. How could he have been so _stupid?_ He'd ruined _everything_. He'd _lost_ everything, and his heart had broken, shattered into a million pieces, and it was all his own fault. And the worst part, the absolute _worst_, was that he hadn't... he'd never even had... they hadn't even _been_... everyone was right, he was _such an __**idiot**__._

If only he could go back, back to when he'd- no, when they'd- no, further. Back to when they'd first really met, 'cause that was where this whole thing started, right?

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><p><em>AN: The next part is actually written, but you're not getting it 'cause I'm 90 percent sure I'll be changing it. So. The story's already plotted out, beginning to end, like all my stories; but that doesn't mean it won't develop surprises on me. They always do. *sigh*<em>

_Stay safe, all you out there on the East Coast! _


	4. Bad Boys

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_Warnings: This is a bit dirty, and pointless, and filled with more innuendo and bad puns than 300 words have any right to be. I don't know why I wrote it, but it may someday become a cop!AU in which Alfred Jones and Lovino Vargas do a lot of busting, crime-fighting, investigation and, of course, engaging in intimate relations. I expect it to be a lot like an action cop movie mixed with a detective show, with added sex. There will, of course, be explosions, the mandatory cranky chief-of-police with a heart of gold (yay Arthur), badges under constant threat of revocation, and eventual promotion. There may be a sequel in which they are detectives, I don't know._

_Of course, all that will require a lot of research unless I decide not to go even moderately authentic, and alas, I am up to my ears in backlogged research for other stories. _

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><p>"Is Officer Jones with you? What's he doing?"<p>

"Sucking, as usual. It's the only thing that bastard's good at, dammit."

Kirkland sighed. "Honestly, I wish you and Jones could go two minutes without jumping down each other's throats."

"Well, sir, it's just that every time he opens that damn mouth of his it makes me want to shove something in it."

The Chief chuckled a little wryly. "He does have that affect, doesn't he? Still, it would be nice if you two could stop riding each other's asses for one day."

"I'll stop riding his if he'll stop riding mine, sir."

"You two are bloody hopeless. I don't know how you manage to get so much done when you're always jumping on each other, but I'm not about to argue with a winning team. I just wanted to let you know you both are up for another citation. I expect you two to behave civilly to each other during the ceremony, understood?"

"We're always civil, bas- I mean, sir."

"Vargas, yesterday I found him pinning you to the sodding desk because you'd eaten the last donut. You can't tell me that's civil."

"You know that bastard and his donuts, sir. Trust me, I had the idiot well in-hand."

"Yes, well, I don't know what you do but it works. Jones has always had the potential to be a damn good cop, but he was such a loose cannon. He's flying a lot straighter since he's partnered up with you, Vargas, so you just keep working your magic."

"I'll do that, sir." Alfred hummed low in agreement with that statement, nodding his head as best he could under the circumstances, and Lovino groaned, arching back in his seat, head thumping the headrest.

"Vargas? Everything alright there?" Kirkland's voice sounded concerned, and Lovino cleared his throat, glaring down at his partner.

"I'm going to have to let you go, sir. This could get messy." He said, tugging on blond locks in retaliation. Alfred, the bastard, smirked unrepentantly up at him, and closed his eyes as he got down to business.

"I understand, son. Try to keep Jones from going too wild. Best of luck."

"Thank you, sir." Lovino ground out, and tossed the radio into the next seat. "You _bastard."_

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><p><em>AN: Yeah, sakerat? Remember when I said I was never going to post this?<em> _*face- palm* I'm just going to...go over here, now. _


	5. Of Cats and Dogs

**Disclaimer I don't own Hetalia. I totally own a cat, though.**

_I really shouldn't be posting this, it's more of a drabble atm than anything else. It'll be a one-shot eventually. I have it mostly planned out, and started it a few months ago when I was reflecting (again) how many times Romano appears with a cat (or cats) in strips featuring him. More than half the time when he shows up, cats are either following him or laying on him or sitting on his head, often with the 'vibration' lines around them to show that they're purring. It's adorable. He also plays with a cat in two of his drama CD scenes, which is also adorable. _

_Then a couple weeks ago Himaruya went to South Italy and took a bunch of pictures of random cats he saw there (how awesome is it that he goes to Italy and takes pictures of cats?), and when I was looking them over again a wee bit ago it just made me want to finish this one-shot. Romano will interact with cats (and other animals) in most of my stories, but still, this one-shot would be fun to write. Alas, I **really** want to work on the next chapter of Educating America right now, so this'll have to wait. _

_This and the goat story, which is another thing altogether. _

_And the musical, which-_

_*sigh* Maybe I should quit my job and write full time. _

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><p>If he'd ever bothered to think about it, South Italy would have considered himself a cat person. He liked cats. Cats were neat and gentle and kept themselves clean. They were graceful. They were beautiful and mysterious and soft, and made pleasing sounds; soft mewls and miaous and chirrs and purred when he stroked them, and although they appeared aloof and distant to the uninitiated, Romano knew that once you'd won a cat over, they were devoted and affectionate creatures.<p>

Cats liked Romano, too. It seemed like everywhere he went, there would be a cat somewhere in the vicinity; winding around his legs, curled up on his lap or shoulder or head, or just playing or relaxing somewhere nearby, enjoying his company.

Romano liked cats, and cats liked Romano.

Romano didn't care much for dogs. It wasn't that he hated them, or anything; they were fine from a distance. He could appreciate them aesthetically, and even enjoyed patting a head or scratching an ear now and then, as long as the animal was quiet and clean and well-behaved. But on the whole, dogs were noisy, messy, ill-behaved and boisterous animals. They were clumsy. They smelled. They knocked over your garbage, rolled in mud and filth, ruined your carpets and chewed your best shoes, fought over nothing and barked and howled like maniacs. Worst of all, they didn't even have the decency to be ashamed of their behaviour. They were proud of it, and acted like you should praise them for doing it. And sure, people always said they were 'friendly' and 'loyal', but as far as Romano could see, dogs would follow anyone who offered them a pat or a treat or a roll in the grass. They were handy to have around if you needed something fetched or a suspicious bastard was lurking around; but on the whole, Romano had no interest in dogs.

Dogs liked Romano, though. They liked to jump on him when they saw him, and slobber on him, and tug on his clothes, and stick their faces in his crotch, and lean on him and steal his food and bark and whine to get his attention. It seemed like no matter how much he struggled or growled or yelled or pushed them away, they kept coming back. It drove Romano nuts.

Romano didn't care much for dogs, but dogs liked Romano.

America was not like a cat.

America, Romano reflected as surveyed the mess of wrappers and crumbs littering the couch, was a lot like a dog.

Sure, he was pretty (America probably would have pouted a bit at that, and said he preferred to be called 'handsome' and 'sexy'. Romano would give him 'sexy', but as young as the bastard was, he was far more pretty than he was handsome. Maybe when he got a bit older. Developed a little more.), and made nice sounds when Romano pet him, and okay, he could be surprisingly gentle sometimes, but that was about as close as he got to catlike behaviour.

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><p><em>AN: I'll probably change parts of this around, but hey. It's a thing for now, to uh...tide you over while I work on the next chapter of EA, and let you know I haven't forgotten you. <em>


	6. Of Many, One

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_I've been terribly tempted for a long time now to do an American history series. Eventually I shall, and this...isn't entirely related, actually, but writing it reminded me of my desires. It's terribly hard not to launch into the series, there's so much **to** American history, but it'll have to wait. _

_This particular piece I fully intend to be a Romerica oneshot, if a particularly introspective one. It's kind of free-flow, and obviously I haven't really edited or fleshed it out at all, but since it'll be a while before I come back to it I thought I'd throw it up while I work on the next chapter of Educating America and a oneshot that...will be very interesting, if I get it finished. _

_Enjoy!_

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><p>America has fallen in love countless times in his young life, sometimes at first sight, sometimes gradually over time, but always forever.<p>

America fell in love three times within his first 24 hours of life.

When America first opened his eyes to the vast, burning blue of the sunlit heavens, he lifted his hand, fingers spread, heart soaring, and knew someday he'd have wings.

Hours later America watched in awed delight as stars sang in the dark sacred night, their voices of light a song without words resonating with his spirit until it poured out of him in laughter and joy, and he spun and danced with the constellations until he collapsed, breathless, in the grass, heart singing, knowing one day he would dance with them in the endless ether.

He opened his eyes a little while later to the pure, shining face of the moon, and the tranquil beauty of it pierced his heart; and as he spread his arms wide, face wet, heart overflowing, he knew instinctively that he would touch that face.

The next time America fell in love was years later, with the earth. This love came slowly, born over months, through gradual understanding. It started, fittingly, with a seed. He remembers warm, brown hands, wizened with age and worn smooth by time, showing him how to dig, a small hole in a mound of rich, brown earth. He remembers his small, pale hand dwarfed in the larger palm, fingers placing three seeds in his hand, showing him how to plant them, the golden maize and the red bean together in the mound, the pale, flat squash in the flat earth nearby. He remembers a warm voice, and smiling brown eyes, deep and fathomless, rich as the earth around them, telling him a story as they plant the seeds, of three sisters who are very different, but are strong because they stand united (he remembers liking the elder sister best, because she stood strong and tall and tried to protect her sisters). He remembers his amazement when the first tiny green sprouts pushed above the brown earth, and his fascination as they grew bigger and stronger everyday; until the maize stood tall, supporting the winding vines of the beans, and the gourds of squash grew fat and yellow around their roots. Soon it was time for harvest. He remembers being shown how to gather, and when; to wait until the gourds were golden, and the beans fat and heavy, and the maize's golden hair turned brown. He learned to dry the beans and maize, spreading the kernels on mats; to parch and grind and roast and to store excess grain, to be eaten when the winter came.

The next year, when Winter had passed and Spring warmed the ground, he smelled the rich scent of the earth as he eagerly dug the mounds to planted the seeds, and his heart swelled with pride and joy as he tended them and watched them grow, for he knew this would make his people strong.

His next love was again, at first sight; and he owes it in a roundabout way to Spain, who left the spirit of freedom on his shores, in the form of the horse. Though he has had many animal and human friends, in a friendly, passing sort of way, it is with the horse he first truly _bonded_, and with the horse he first formed a partnership. From the horse he learned of companionship, of working together, of communicating with, trusting, and relying on your partner. Over the years he's spent more time with horses than he has with any other being, be it human, animal, or personification (or even alien). He respects horses, and knows without a doubt that their bond can never be broken, for he's become as much a part of them as they are of him; their hearts and spirits are inseparable.

_"We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal..." _July fourth, 1776: America fell in love with the written word, for, if you'll pardon the expression, self-evident reasons.

1786, on a bright, sunny March day in New York City, wool cloak wrapped tightly around him against the cold, America tasted his first ice cream. Ben bought it for him, to cheer him up after another frustrating meeting of Congress and dismal reports from abroad (England was _still_ refusing to send an ambassador, or to take his ambassador seriously. Poor Adams was tearing his hair out trying to get some diplomacy happening); complaining as he sorted through an assortment of Portuguese, French and English coinage to pay the vendor, "Jefferson's completely right, the sooner we adopt a monetary system based on the Spanish dollar the better. Trying to sort out this shit is fucking ridiculous." America nodded, blowing on his hands to warm them. He liked the idea, too. Anything had to be better than trying to sort out the fucking shillings and pence and farthings. Was it add twelve, or take away four...? He frowned, briefly distracted from his melancholy over the dismal congressional meeting "Here you go." His musings were interrupted when Ben turned to him, thrusting a bowl full of something thick and white that looked a lot like frozen butter under his nose, spoon fixed firmly in the top of the substance like Excalibur in its stone. "This'll cheer you up." America blinked at it, and took the bowl, frowning at the cold of it against his already cold hands. Dubious (but never one to turn down free food), he scooped up a spoonful and took a bite. As soon as the sweet, creamy substance hit his tongue, however, his attitude changed. His spirits lifted instantly, eyes lighting and lips curling up around his spoon, and Ben grinned at his expression, gesturing victoriously with his own spoon. "Told you." He said smugly, eyes sparkling behind his spectacles as he scooped up another spoonful from his own bowl. "Ice cream makes _everything_ better." And America has found it true that while ice cream may not _fix_ things; by and large, it always makes them better.

Contrary to popular belief, America didn't fall in love with guns (or firearms in general), for a couple of centuries. Oh, he had them, as a colony- England insisted that he buy one from him, and learn to use it in order to fight the various wars England wanted him to be a part of. So he bought the musket England brought him, and dutifully practiced with it as England asked, and tried to seem enthusiastic about it for England's sake. But the fact of the matter was, it was pretty useless. America was, at the core, a practical nation, and England's musket was anything but. It was noisy, it took forever to load, and it was inaccurate even at close distances. It was useless for hunting- it took too long to load, and your prey would have noticed you and run long before you got close enough to kill anything with it, the powder was expensive, and the bullets were almost impossible to find (he ended up retrieving and reusing the bullets he shot at his practice targets, since there were no gunsmiths in his colonies and England refused to send extra bullets). Traps and snares were faster, and anyway hunting was an inefficient way to provide food (he much preferred farming, which was far more reliable, and yielded much better profits). It wasn't even a good fighting weapon, for much the same reasons. So for several hundred years he only used guns when he had to— until early in the spring of 1852, when he joined the Texas Rangers and was given a Colt Walker to practice with. He was amazed to find a gun he could hold in his hand, fit in his belt, fire with power, speed and accuracy to a distance of over 100 yards, and fire six times before having to reload. _This_ was a gun worth having. His excitement mounted as he learned that improvements had been made in the few short years since the Walker had debuted, and already there were revolvers that were faster, more accurate, more easy to use. He practiced diligently with the Walker, the Dragoons, each successive Colt-designed revolver and rifle thoroughly explored and tested until by the time the Peacemaker was a familiar weight at his hip and in his hand his excitement had become a steady passion; a passion which not only saved his life (and the lives of many others) but also made him who he was today, in more ways than he could count.

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><p><em>AN: I don't know if each of these will be fleshed out into their own chapter and explored in more depth and detail, or if I'll keep them short and brief. They do touch on <em>_a few things people don't really realise about America. For instance; for a very long time, we didn't really use guns. At all. We didn't like them. Colonists had no real use for them. They were inaccurate, and clumsy, and ridiculously expensive __and basically useless. _

_We __were primarily peaceful, agricultural colonies, and the general opinion of guns was that they were an abominable contruction whose sole purpose was to kill other people, which was reprehensible in every sense of the word. England occasionally forced us to form militia and buy their guns, just in case they needed us to defend their territories or fight, and while we'd reluctantly do so out of a sense of duty to England, we just couldn't muster any interest in firearms at all. It didn't help that more often than not England sent us only the guns that were so worn out that they couldn't be used by their own armies, and were basically falling apart anyway. _

_(In the words of Gary Nash in his book_ 'The Urban Crucible',_ the American lower class was "far more moderate in their proposals and far less violent" than the those of London. John Lawson, after visiting North and South Carolina noted in his book '_A New Voyage to Carolina', _published 1709, that there was 'no place so free from bloodshed', and that it was a remarkably peaceful and plentiful place, but warned those who wanted to visit that they would have to bring their own guns and ammunition, as there were none to be found in the Carolinas. If you're interested, you can find these books online, for free, in the Google books database.)_

_Americans used guns occasionally in wars, although most of the men fighting in those battles actually used farm implements or pikes, rather than muskets. It's just that when people read our history and see 'armed men' or 'they carried arms' or even 'the right to bear arms', they automatically think of guns- when it usually refers to any implement used as a weapon, which at the time was usually farm implements (pitchforks and adzes, sort of thing) or pikes. _

_America didn't start using guns or gain a general interest in guns until around the time of the 'Wild West', when revolvers were developed and improved upon, and they actually became **practical **__as weapons and hunting tools. It's just that g__un culture is so pervasive now that it seems fantastical to consider that there was a time when we didn't use them, especially considering the 'dangers' the colonists must have faced (which really was mostly starvation, but hunting is a lousy way to combat starvation and we were quite well-provided for once we managed to secure a good agricultural foothold), so we tend to assume we had them, despite their lack of mention in most of our history._

_On horses! Horses, as we know them, originally evolved in North America. Not so much up in Canada, sorry Canada, but in what would eventually become the US proper. For reasons unknown, shortly after they became the horse we recognise today, they just...disappeared from North America, for reasons unknown. Seriously, it's a mystery. Unfortunately, the reports and studies I've read on the subject were either vague or mystified at both how and why the horse disappeared from our continent, and how they got elsewhere in the world. (Maybe they floated on driftwood :p). However and whyever they left, __Spain eventually brought them back to us, thank you Spain. _

_Three sisters. Yes. Look it up. To this day, the US is still very much agricultural nation (yes, we're no less a major industrial, technological, and entertainment force too, 'cause we have a lot of interests) being a net exporter of food to the rest of the world. Our corn crops far and away top the list, but we're no slouch in other areas, either. _

_Ben Franklin! I didn't go to public school so I don't know what they taught about him in it, but I know wikipedia leaves a **lot** out, such as the fact that he was known for having a mouth on him (in person, not print) and being a bit of a womanizer, among many other interesting character quirks. If you want a graphic example of this, Google 'letters of note Ben Franklin' and click on 'Older mistresses are so grateful!' _

_And now I think my author's note is getting longer than the actual post, so I'll stop there. _


	7. A Wizard Did It

**Hetalia=Himaruya: possessive, dative, genetive, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera! **(and now I want to watch The King and I. Yul Brynner.)

_I actually really ought not to be posting this, but I started it and now I have a problem. Keep it a one-shot, or make it a story? _

_Anyway. Wizard of Oz parody. Bizarre. _

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><p>"Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit, <em>dammit<em>." Romano's chant was almost a mantra as he ran low over the field, ducking under fences and branches as he went, arms over his head in an attempt to shield himself from the inclement weather. Thunder rolled overhead, vibrating the air and causing him to cower, briefly, in the shelter of a bush, but once it'd faded he leapt up again, continuing his quest. His cursing turned to swearing as fat, silver-dollar raindrops began to fall around him, plopping heavily from the darkened sky, and the wind picked up to whip tree branches and brush and grass, tugging at his clothes and hair. He was half soaked by the time he reached his destination— a small tomato field, the last of a series which he needed to prepare for the unexpected storm.

He darted to the small shed which stood in a corner of the field, hurriedly pulling the tarps and stakes that he would need to protect his crop from the worst of the wind and rain from its depths. He couldn't lose this field, he _wouldn't_. Holding on fast despite the wind and the rain, he travelled the edge of the rows of tomato plants, hammering the stakes into the ground as he went, hands working rapidly to tie the edges of the tarp securely to the stakes and unfurling the canvas over the top of the tomatoes, to shield them from the rapidly approaching gale-force winds and driving rain.

He couldn't lose these tomatoes. He _couldn't_.

It'd been a hard year for Italy's tomatoes. He'd already lost half of his crops to a rash of unexpected storms, and a heat wave that'd come out of nowhere early in the season, scorching and withering the tender plants just as they were starting to sprout. The few fields he had left were the survivors, the strongest plants, true, but they'd already been battered and burned and he wasn't sure they could survive another storm, not now, so late in the season, but he was going to do his _damned_ best to get them through. This field was the only one left of his remaining fields that needed to be covered. Once he had these tarps down and tightly fastened, all he could do was wait, and pray, and hope.

At last the last stake was driven and the last corner of the tarp tied fast, and he stood, dripping wet, panting, as he looked over his field. The dirty white surface of the canvas rippled under the wind like choppy seas, but didn't come loose. Good, good. That was good.

A blinding flash of light, and a resounding crack like the breaking bone of some massive god split the sky and he shrieked, dropping the hammer in his hand and fleeing to cower at the bottom of the shed, all courage spent on tomatoes.

He shivered and whimpered and cried as the shed rattled in the wind, huddled under the wooden bench that ran along one side in hopes that it would protect him from the storm. The wind wailed and shrieked, battering at the flimsy wooden structure until he was sure it would collapse. Finally, with a prolonged _creeeaaaak_ as the wood bent under the strain, the shed tilted, rolled, and tumbled as the wind tore it from the ground, carrying it away. Romano shrieked as tools clattered down all around him, narrowly missing him with every turn and tumble. He screamed and screamed until he collapsed from a lack of oxygen, having forgotten to breathe in-between screams.

_Where the fuck was America?_ He thought muzzily, as stars danced before his eyes. His stupid boyfriend should know when he needed him, dammit. Some hero _he_ was.

"Save me already, you stupid bastard." He muttered as his eyes slipped closed, and the blackness of unconsciousness took him.

When he awoke it was still, quiet except for the sound of a bird singing somewhere outside, and shafts of sunlight shone through chinks in the wooden walls of the shed, which had (miraculously) ended up upright and relatively inact. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and groaned, his head and body aching in several places after being tossed around in the shed during its eventful journey. He kicked aside the tools that blocked the door and stood, opening the door and poking his head cautiously outside.

And blinked.

_Ugh._

It was so..._tacky._

He obviously wasn't in Italy anymore. Bright, gaudy colours met his gaze at every turn. Grass and hedges of such lurid green they were almost flourescent, flowers so insistently, vividly magenta that they burned their images into his iris, so that whenever he blinked he saw negative images of them on the inside of his eyelids; a sky of intense, primary blue— everywhere he looked, any and everything as far as the eye could see was similarly offensive to anyone with even a modicrum of taste or style. The landscape looked like it'd been designed by someone who didn't care how it looked or whether the colors matched, as long as they were _bright._ Which they were. Oh, how they were. It was _revolting._

...It...reminded him of someone, actually. Someone...he frowned, trying to remember, pinching the bridge of his nose when a sharp throb of pain shot through his brain at the effort.

So much for that, then.

"You killed the witch!" A high-pitched voice rang out, making him shriek and jump sideways, banging his elbow on the door. He swore and rubbed it, turning to glare at the source of the voice, only to shrink back again when he encountered its owner: a tall, pale, violet-eyed man whose childlike smile was somehow even more terrifying than his ridiculous height and the ginormous lollipop he carried for no apparent reason, since it couldn't possibly be eaten, being far too big and so psychedelically-coloured that it resembled nothing more than a rainbow on perception-altering substances.

He was almost more afraid of the lollipop than the man, whose pale skin and clothes and hair made him look desperately out of place in this world of vibrant colour.

"Wh-wh-who the fuck are you?" He quavered, ducking behind his door.

"It's rude to ask someone's name without introducing yourself first." The man's voice, soft though it was, made him think uneasily of wind across snowfields, bitterly cold and empty, "But since you killed the witch, I can make allowances for you."

"W-w-what the hell are you talking about, asshole? I d-d-didn't kill an-anybody!"

The man's terrifying smile widened, and he swung his disturbing lolly to point at the shed. He looked to where the man pointed, and saw two stockinged legs, obviously feminine, sticking out from under the shed, lying still and motionless.

_Shit._ Shit! He'd killed a _girl!_ Well, not him, obviously, it was the shed that'd done it, but it was _his_ shed and he'd been in it, and all of that didn't matter 'cause it was a _girl_ and she needed _help!_

"Shit!" He threw his shoulder against the side of the shed, straining to lift it off of the woman. "Help me out, asshole! We need to get this off of her! She might be okay if we get it off!"

"No! You can't! Don't do that!" The man crouched down, covering his head and visibly shaking. "She's a very bad witch! She-"

"_Brrrotheerrrr..."_ Came an eerie wail from underneath the shed. "_Brooothhheeeerrrrr, let's get—"_

"Aiiieee!" Screamed the man, clutching his lollipop to his chest as if it would protect him and screwing his eyes tightly shut. "No! Go away!"

_","_ an unsettling chant filled the air, growing in volume, accompanied by the sound of nails scraping against wood, as though she was clawing her way out from under the shed.

"Holy _shit!"_ He jumped back as the girl's legs began to writhe, and the shed rattled and rocked. Ducking into one of the lurid bushes, he covered his head and closed his eyes, too, hoping that whatever was going on wouldn't involve him any more than it already had.

There was the sound of shattering wood, and a shrill scream, and silence.

The silence went on for a long time.

After a while, there was a shimmering sound, distant at first, but which slowly grew closer. (Don't ask what was meant by a shimmering sound: it was the sound of a shimmer, the sound a shimmer makes. The sound you get, in fact, when it shimmers. That sound. _You_ know the one.)

He remained in the relative safety of his bush, though, not wanting to be devoured by anything that shimmered. Or anything that didn't, either, but since whatever was making that sound was obviously shimmering, it fell into the former category.

Soon the shimmering died away, and music began to swell. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," sang someone who pronounced their 'r's as if they burned, "and meet the— Bloody hell, what happened here?" (That last part was not sung, of course, being more of an exclamation.)

The music screeched to a halt.

More silence.

After several minutes he peered through a gap in the leaves to see what was going on. Emerald green eyes stared back at him from the other side.

"_There_ you are," Said the owner of the eyes.

"Yiiee!" He screamed, scrabbling backward out of the bush.

"Ah, steady on," whoever it was called after him, "no need to react like that, now. I didn't mean to scare you, I'm terribly sorry. I'm not a bad person, really."

"W-who are you?" He quavered again, from his place on the ground.

"Allow me to introduce myself." A remarkable-looking fellow stepped around the bush, then, and submitted himself to the author's description. He was—

"Hang on, at least let me introduce myself first!" The newcomer interjected rudely.

"Wha— I— that wasn't rude! I simply think I should introduce myself before we launch into the description! It's _common courtesy."_

The fellow sputtered, _completely dismissing_ the fact that he wasn't even supposed to _be_ in this scene in the first place, and was here on the author's sufferance; as well as the fact that your appearance was generally the first thing a person noticed about you, as shallow as that may sound; and therefore the description really ought to come first.

"Nevertheless, I'd feel more comfortable if I began my introduction with my name, thank you."

But people are more interested in how you look—

"But if you don't give them my name first, how are they supposed to know to whom the description applies? You could be describing _anybody_."

...There's only two people in this scene, and you're the only one in a bedsheet. I think you're safe.

"W- what!" The man in the bedsheet squawked, flailing his arms in irritation. "_Bedsh— _This is _not_ a _bedsheet!_ It's a _robe_."

A robe made from a bedsheet. A _child's_ bedsheet, apparently, because it barely covers your —

"I HARDLY THINK THAT'S RELEVANT." The bushy-eyebrowed man in the too-short bedsheet interrupted loudly, emerald eyes flashing under bushy brows as he blushed a shade of red that clashed horribly with his dirty-dishwater-blond hair, tugging at the bottom of his bedsheet-robe in a futile effort to make it anything approaching a decent article of clothing. "AND THIS _IS_ A DECENT ARTICLE OF CLOTHING! I'm an _angel_, I'll have you know!"

_Please. _The only angels who dress like _that_ dance around poles or on laps and expect to have a thong full of dollars by the end of the night. And as far as I can tell you're not even _wearing_—

"SHUT UP!"

And anyway, in this story you're a—

"I'mArthurtheGoodWitch." Arthur, the Good Witch dressed like a stripper said in a rush, crossing his arms with a victorious huff at having trumped the author (shhh). "_There._ And who might you be, lad?"

"Uh..." Our hero said hesitantly, worried about being in the company of this crazy man in a bedsheet who talked to thin air. "I'm, uh...I'm," he blinked, suddenly worried about more than witches dressed like exotic dancers who argued with voices in their head. He couldn't remember his name. He couldn't remember..._anything_, except that he'd been in Italy, covering his tomato fields against the storm, and had hidden in the shed...and everything that had happened afterward, but nothing before that. He frowned, struggling to remember...surely he had a name, right? _Everybody_ did. S...Italy?...no, that was where he was _from_. R..Ro, Rom...a..no, Rome was a place _in_ Italy, right? Probably the town he came from. A...America? That sounded...familiar...but it couldn't be _his_ name, that was a _girl's_ name. He definitely wasn't a girl. Maybe a girl he knew back in Italy? _America._ Sounded pretty. Anyway, not his name. Oh! "Lovino." _That_ was his name, right? He was pretty sure. "My name's Lovino."

"Well, Lovino." Arthur smiled kindly. "I expect you'd like to go home, hm?"

"Yes." Lovino admitted.

"Well, come with me, then, and we'll see what we can do." Lovino followed Arthur to the rubble of his shed, watching in bemusement as the Good Witch prodded the pile of wood fragments with his wand. "Now, where are they...I know they're in here some— aha!" Arthur siezed upon something in the rubble, and turned to present it to Lovino with a triumphant flourish. "Here you go, lad! Your ticket home!"

Lovino blinked at the objects the Good Witch held. A pair of ruby-red slippers; pumps to be exact, in excellent condition and very stylish, with delicate little buckles and two-inch heels; shoes that he vaguely remembered recently having been attached to the legs of a woman pinned underneath his shed. She must have lost them during her escape.

"There's a transportation charm on them." Arthur explained. "If you put them on, they'll take you wherever you want to go."

Lovino stared at the shoes. "I'm not putting those on." He frowned, turning up his nose. "Those are _girls_ shoes."

"Ah," Arthur paused, and looked down at the shoes he held. "You're right. Not to worry, I can fix that." He added, pulling a star-tipped wand from his clothes and waving it over the slippers, transforming them into a pair of men's wingtips. "There you go."

"I'm still not wearing them." Lovino crossed his arms. Red shoes with the khaki shorts and blue tank top he'd slipped on when he'd run out the door? Not a chance. "They'll clash with what I'm wearing. And anyway, red shoes are _tacky._" He huffed, pouting a little. "It'll look like I'm wearing tomatoes on my feet."

Arthur's eye twitched. "_Fine_." He waved his wand again, changing the shoes from ruby (or tomato) red to silver. "_There_. Is that better?"

Lovino took the shoes, carefully examining them, turning them over and over in his hands. Good craftsmanship, and they _were_ very stylish, but..."Can't you do anything about the heels?" He asked, running a finger over the stubbornly two-inch heels of the silver wingtips, the only feature that had not been transformed.

Frowning in puzzlement, Arthur the Good Witch tapped the heels with his wand. It made an embarrassing fizzling noise, but had no other effect. "I'm afraid not. There's a counter-charm on them, it seems. 'Author's License.'"

Lovino shrugged. He didn't really mind, they were still _very_ nice shoes. He kicked off his old shoes and slipped them on, twisting around to see how they looked and felt. "They're comfortable." He said in surprise, executing a quick series of dance steps to put them through their paces. They were _very_ comfortable, and fit perfectly, hugging his feet like a second skin. _Nice_. These were going to be a _great_ addition to his wardrobe. And he didn't even have to pay for them! He stopped dancing and put his hands on his hips, looking down at his new shoes in satisfaction.

He even liked the heels. They made him feel taller.

"_Nice." _He decided. "Thanks, bastard." He tapped his toe. "How do you get the magic to work? I want to go home and show these to...someone." He frowned, trying to remember...

"It's quite simple really," Arthur explained. "all you have to do is put one foot in front of the other, and carry on that way until you get to where you're going."

Lovino stared at him.

"Come on, lad, it's easy." The Good With encouraged, showing him how. "Like this. One foot in front of the other, then again, and so on; and those shoes will carry you wherever you want to go."

"...So these shoes will 'magically' take me where I want to go, by walking." Lovino clarified.

"Well, obviously it's not _quite_ that simple," Arthur said. "I can see how it might appear that way to the uninitiated, but they _are _magic, after all. The magic of the shoes will take you where you want to go."

"So...the shoes will be doing the walking?" Lovino asked, brows furrowing in confusion. "I don't have to do anything?"

"Well, no," Arthur admitted. "you'll have to, you know, move your legs and feet and so forth, lift the shoes and place them on the ground in an ambulatory fashion, but— look, they're magic, alright? Just trust me on that."

Lovino examined the 'magical' shoes. "Can I run in them?"

"Yes." Arthur beamed, pleased to expound upon the wonders of the slippers. "And hop and skip and anything you might do in a normal pair of shoes, _plus_ magically travel to wherever you want to go."

"By walking."

"They're quite marvelous, really. Very magical." Arthur repeated, just in case Lovino was doubting the slippers' magical qualities.

"Okay." Lovino humoured the madman, who despite being a bit off in the head had nevertheless provided him with a very fine pair of shoes. "I'll let them 'magically transport' me back home. Which way is Italy from here, bastard?"

"I'm afraid I've never heard of Italy." Arthur said apologetically. "I wouldn't have the first idea of where it could be from here."

"...You're kidding."

"Oh! I do know of someone who might know." Arthur brightened. "The Wizard of the Emerald City! You can find him by following that yellow brick road, there." He gestured with his wand, and Lovino turned to see the wide yellow brick pathway that ran across the verdant landscape. "Just follow that road, and it'll take you straight to the Emerald City. The Wizard lives in the only castle in the city. Can't miss it."

"I guess I've got no choice." Lovino muttered, resigning himself to the journey. "The sooner I get out of this technicolor hellhole, the better."

"Well, I must be off." Arthur said, unaware that according to the story he was supposed to bestow a magic charm in the form of a kiss upon Lovino at this point (which was for the best since Lovino would probably not have submitted to such an experience willingly, magic or not), and waved his wand, causing a shimmering pink bubble to expand around him. "Good luck, lad. And remember— follow the yellow brick road!" With that the bubble rose, with the distinct shimmering sound from earlier, and floated off into the distance.

Lovino wondered whether or not he should have told the witch that everyone would see up his bedsheet when he was floating above the landscape in a transparent bubble, but the bubble was too far out of range for Arthur to have heard, anyway, so he decided not to worry about it.

Instead, he turned his attention to the yellow brick road, stretching out ahead of him like a fat, yellow ribbon. "Alright." He announced to the world at large. "Emerald City, here I come."

These shoes were made for walkin', and that's just what they were gonna do.

He hadn't travelled very far when he came upon a field, which would have held little interest for him, being filled with hay rather than tomatoes, if not for the rather odd sight of a scarecrow standing in the middle of it, playing with the crows. Without realising he was doing it, he stopped to watch, moving closer to the fence and leaning against it as he did so. The scarecrow, dressed in tattered old clothes and a floppy old hat, cavorted around the field in a highly energetic fashion, leaping here and there and running back and forth and occasionally waving his arms in the air in apparent excitement, and the crows joined in, for all the world looking as though they were enjoying the experience. Bits of straw fell from inside the scarecrow's clothes from time to time, drifting slowly to the ground, especially when he waved his arms, and when that happened he would grab a handful of hay from the huge round bales standing in the field, stuffing it into his clothes to replace what he'd lost.

After a while the scarecrow seemed to notice him watching, and his movements became, if anything, even _more_ energetic; he tumbled and leapt and performed remarkable acrobatic feats, occasionally glancing sidelong to where Lovino stood, as if to see if his audience was still with him. For his part Lovino became quite caught up in the show, leaning further over the fence and watching with wide eyes, gasping whenever the scarecrow had executed a particularly difficult maneuver, or murmuring in approval at something he found especially impressive.

Eventually the crows took off, unable to keep up with the scarecrow and realising that his attention wasn't on them anymore, anyway. He stopped, then, and waved after them, calling a farewell, and laughed, turning to grin at Lovino. He was very handsome, for a scarecrow, with bright blue eyes and a carefree smile, not that Lovino noticed, of course. He stared back at him for a moment, not because the scarecrow was good-looking or anything, but because it was strange to see one running around like that.

Then the bastard had the audacity to _wink_ at him.

Lovino blushed and looked away, pointedly ignoring him.

"Hello!" Called the scarecrow, whom Lovino was ignoring, and Lovino pretended not to hear.

"Hi," Called the scarecrow again, walking towards him, which Lovino pretended not to notice. "What'cha doin'?"

"My name's Alfred." The scarecrow said cheerfully, coming to stand across the fence from him, and holding out a gloved hand. "What's yours?"

"L-Lovino." Lovino was forced to admit, reluctantly sliding his hand into Alfred's, since the bastard obviously couldn't tell when he was being pointedly ignored. The scarecrow's smile widened.

"Lovino, huh? Cute name!" Alfred enthused, shaking his hand. "It suits you. What brings you by the hayfield?"

"I'm going to the Emerald City." Lovino told him. "I've gotta see a wizard about helping me with something."

"Cool." Alfred decided. "Mind if I come with?"

"I don't know, bastard." Lovino said dubiously. "Why?"

"I dunno." The scarecrow shrugged. "Sounds like fun."

"Well, alright." Lovino conceded. "I guess you can come. Maybe the wizard can give you a brain."

"Hahaha, yeah. Wait, what?"

They travelled together for several days, and as it turned out, it was very good that he'd allowed Alfred to come along. The nights were cooler than Lovino was accustomed to, and his shorts and tank were not up to the task of keeping him warm when the sun dipped below the horizon; but the scarecrow was. He'd discovered that on the first night, when he was shivering in the grass under the tree they'd decided to stop under for the night, and the scarecrow had pulled Lovino on top of him, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close, explaining that straw made very good bedding 'cause it was an insulating material. Lovino didn't know about that, but Alfred was warm and snug and Lovino fell asleep almost instantly, drifting off in the middle of a token protest.

"Look, Lovino, look!" Alfred called, high in the branches of a (normally-coloured, thankfully) tree which stood alongside the road, along with many of its fellows; the road having led them through a sort of little wood. He would have called it a forest, except the trees were quite widely and regularly spaced, and had obviously been intentionally planted. It was almost an orchard, except none of the trees were of the fruit-bearing kind. Unless you counted acorns, which he didn't. He glanced up to where Alfred hung off one of the topmost branches of a tree much taller than the others, and frowned.

"Be careful, idiot. You're going to fall." He called, but the scarecrow only grinned.

"No I won't, watch me!" He announced, hauling himself easily up to stand on the branch, reaching for one even higher. Lovino's frown deepened, not that he was worried or anything.

"If you fall, I'm not going to stuff you." He warned, moving closer to the tree. "You're on your own."

"I'll be fine." Alfred dismissed, swinging from the branch. "Are you watching? I'm gonna try someth— hey, what's that?" He twisted around awkwardly, trying to see something through the treetops, when his grip slipped. "Whoops!" He tumbled down through the branches, hitting the ground with a _whump_.

"Shit!" Lovino swore, racing to his side. "You _idiot! _I _told_ you!"

"I'm okay!" Alfred announced, sitting up and readjusting his hat. "Just lost a little stuffing. Um, can you help me find it?" After a moment's search, they found his lost bundle of straw stuck in a lower branch.

"Honestly." Lovino fussed as he was stuffing the straw back into place. "There's not a damn brain in your head, you idiot. I _told_ you to be careful. What were you doing, twisting around like that?"

"I saw something through the trees," Alfred explained, "like a metal man. Maybe it's a robot! We should go and see if we can find it! Maybe we can use it. To fight bad guys or something."

"What bad guys?" Lovino wondered, but they wandered off the path anyway, in search of the possible robot.

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><p><em>AN: also. Also! I, er...I...don't remember. <em>


	8. Daisy, Daisy

**Disclaimer: I don't Own Hetalia**

_Working on a little project that is taking a lot longer than I expected, so I thought I'd throw up a little something in the meantime to let you know I'm still alive and writing. This one came to me out no-where one day while I was working at a meat-packing plant, wrapping strips of thick bacon around circles of turkey to send to Canada. Hi Canada. I see what you eat._

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><p>There's a goat tied to the tree in Romano's backyard.<p>

A gift, from one of his smaller rural villages; along with some very fine cheeses, fresh honey, and beautiful, ripe figs. He's rather pleased with the gift overall, and he's been making plans and preparations for all the delicious dishes and desserts he's going to make. America will be arriving in a couple of days, and Romano can hardly wait to share it with him.

Which is a new thing for Romano. He's not used to wanting to share his things, least of all gifts meant for him. Normally, what's his is _his_, dammit, and everyone else can get their _own_ damn stuff. But it's different with America, he doesn't know why (okay, maybe he does, but shut up). America loves things like this, and Romano's found himself unconsciously planning around America's tastes, discarding plans for dishes that would be too strongly-flavoured for America to handle and leaning towards things that are lighter or sweeter or savoury (although Romano has found that if he makes a more complex or exotic dish along with several milder ones America's more likely to try it, and once he's tried it a few times, also more likely to like it.)

There's a few especially delicious things he can do with goat meat, and once America takes care of butchering it he's got everything ready. (He'd do it himself, but, well, he may be an agricultural nation, but when it comes to meat he's more comfortable being on the food preparation side of things. He doesn't like killing, even when it's necessary, but America hunts and raises cattle and all that sort of thing, so Romano plans to leave that end of things to him. Besides, it's the least America can do, since Romano's taking care of all the _real_ work of cooking.) His mind's swimming with roasts and braises and sauces and stews and all kinds of things. He's even planning on making burgers, with an Italian spin; which he never would have even _considered_ before, but now...well, it's different. Besides, anything _he _makes will be _way_ better than that slop America's used to, so it's not like he's, you know, _catering_ to the bastard... well, he _is_, a little, but... it's different! What he's planning on making is actual _food,_ made out of _real_ ingredients. It's not the _same_.

Besides, America likes them.

Shut up.

The day before America's due to arrive, he makes an early morning trip to the market to pick up some ingredients he wanted especially fresh. It doesn't take long, he's gone for little more than half an hour, but when he comes home America's motorcycle is parked outside. It takes him a little while to find the other nation, but he finally locates him in the backyard.

Feeding french fries to the goat.

"Hey, 'Mano!" America greets as he draws closer, dropping the box of fries in the grass for the goat and wiping his hands on his jeans. "Where've you been?"

"Shopping." Romano answers as America pulls him down for a hello kiss, and wonders how old those french fries _are_, since he knows America didn't get them anywhere around _his_ place. He hopes they won't have an adverse affect on the goat's flavour. "Had some things to pick up. When did you get here?"

"About fifteen minutes ago." America turns his attention back to the goat, stroking its ears while it nibbles fries and cardboard. "I didn't know you got a goat! What's her name?"

"Dinner." Romano deadpans.

America laughs, tickling its neck. "Heh, that's a weird name for a goat." Romano quirks an eyebrow, waiting for the penny to drop. Sure enough, after a few seconds America looks up, eyes wide. "Wait, what? You're not going to kill her!"

"No, _you're_ going to kill it, and _we're_ going to eat it." Romano responds dryly. "So don't get too attached, bastard."

America stares at the goat, which nuzzles his hand and bleats a little, hoping for more golden sticks of potato abomination. Absently, he digs around in his pocket and pulls out another box of fries for her. He frowns. "But she's so cute!"

* * *

><p><em>AN: Americans get funny about eating certain animals. Chickens and cows and deer are okay, but rabbits and goats? Dubious. And eating <strong>horse<strong> is just...Argh. That's borderline cannibalism! We might eat all those things (except horse) anyway, but if we **name** them then all bets are off. We try not to name anything we plan to eat, cows or chickens or not. We get **attached. **(I remember my grandma telling me a story of her childhood back on the ranch, and how her dad used to tease them when slaughtering time came 'round and they had to eat a cow they'd gone and named after they were told not to. 'Isn't Belle delicious! She sure is tender, don't'cha think?'; and how all the kids would be crying too hard to eat. Amazing she didn't turn into a vegetarian, really.)_

_Goats, though, I think are a bit intelligent and cute (and have strong personalities), and so we usually keep them as pets, instead, along with rabbits. We have trouble eating any kind of animal we tend to make an emotional connection with. _

_(We're totally not giving up cows and chickens, though. We'll eat those as long as they exist. Nom.)_

_ I may throw up a few more scraps in a little bit if the mood takes me and I'm still anxious about not having posted anything in a while, we'll see. _


	9. Friends With Strange Cats

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_I have three different Romaneko!/Americat! stories started and sitting in my files, and I'd really love to write one, but I have so many stories going on right now! They'll have to wait. Still, this one popped up when I was trying to think of a Valentine's story (I have on in the works, yes I know it's late, it'll be up...er, sometime. Soon I hope? Things have been...difficult.) and though I really liked it, it was pretty clear it was going to be a chaptered fic, and I really wanted a one-shot for Valentines. I'm thinking maybe I can convert this one into a series of drabbles though. Might be cute?_

_I already have their names selected, you'll see. Don't be surprised if the cats show up in Educating America, too. Cats! Huh! What are they good for? Absolutely everything! _

* * *

><p>Lost and miserable and deeply distressed, he stared at the rain falling thick and fast outside his makeshift shelter from the storm. The damp cardboard box he was huddled in was doing little to shield him from the cold, and his wet fur clung to his body, making him even <em>more<em> miserable and cold. He shivered, shifting on his paws, curling his whip-like tail around his body in a hopeless attempt to keep warm (he _knew_ he must look like a drowned rat, and that added insult to unbelievable injury), and mao'd'his misery to the dark and pitiless world: _Come and save me already, you stupid bastard! _

A pair of dirty white sneakers appeared outside his box, wet and muddy and _unfamiliar,_ and he cowered against the back of the box, terrified of what was going to happen to him. The strange shoes were followed quickly by an equally unfamiliar face and voice. Blue eyes peered curiously at him behind fogged lenses as the young man crouched outside his box asked, "Hey there, little guy. What're you doing in there?"

_Being cold and wet and miserable, idiot. What does it look like? _He mowled and spat, irritated by the stupidity of the question and terrified of the strange man, laying his ears down and trying to look smaller as he plastered himself in a sodden corner. The man reached for him, and he cowered harder, yowling in distress. _No don't eat me don' t eat me, I taste terrible!_

"You look like you're in need of a hero, buddy!" The man exclaimed, lifting him out of the box and tucking him into the bomber jacket he wore. "C'mon, you can come home with me. We'll get you all fixed up, don't worry." The jacket was warm and dry and soft, lined with silk, and he burrowed gratefully into its depths, plastering himself against the man's side and digging his claws into a broad chest for extra security. "Ow, hey. Easy on the goods, buddy." The man winced, gently prying the claws from his skin and pulling his jacket closed around the wet feline, supporting him in the crook of his arm and looking down at him, scratching his head with two fingers. "Now let's get you home and dry, 'kay?"

He sneezed in the man's face by way of agreement, and blue eyes blinked behind lenses splattered with kitty snot. "I'll take that as a yes."

He was a lot warmer, though still wet, when they arrived at the place the young man called 'home' a little while later, where he was pulled from his nice warm nest in the jacket to be deposited on the cold, hard surface of a coffeetable in the living room and told to wait until the young man came back with a towel. He took the opportunity to shake some of the water from his coat, and relocated himself to the couch, which though worn, looked comfortable, and began to groom himself.

"Aw, hey! Don't sit on the couch, you're getting it all wet!" The young man protested when he returned. "You were supposed to wait on the coffee table."

He sniffed disdainfully. As if he would wait on that cold, hard surface when there was a perfectly soft, warm couch right here to help soak the water from his fur. The young man sighed, settling down next to him on the couch and pulling him into his lap, frowning resignedly at the wet spot he left behind. "Now I'm gonna have to get another towel for the couch." He told him as he began towelling him off. He wasn't thrilled with the sensation of the rough terrycloth ruffling his fur this way and that, but the man was gentle and it _was_ getting him dry faster, so he allowed it with only a little struggling to show that he could get away if he really _wanted,_ but would stay since the man was making himself useful and all.

Before he realized it he was a puddle of fur across the man's lap, as strong fingers massaged his body through the towel, firm and gentle and _delicious_, _just_ what he needed after his terrible ordeal. "Oh yeah, you like that, don't you." The young man chuckled, rubbing little circles into tiny kitty shoulders and grinning when the cat's head fell limply to the side with a deep sigh, eyes closing in pleasure. "Much better than that dirty old box."

_Shut up and keep petting. _He sighed, rolling onto his side and stretching out his paws. All too soon he was mostly dry, and the massage ceased with a few firm strokes over his back and side which left him limp and borderline comatose.

"Y'know, you're a really pretty cat under all that water." The man observed, tossing the damp towel aside. "I bet you're someone's pet, aren't'cha. What were you doin' all lost and alone in the big bad world, babydoll?" He scratched a furry chin. "You're lucky I found you. It's supposed to get really cold tonight."

He lifted his chin in pleasure, and sneezed violently, twice, right in the young man's face.

"This is going to be a habit with you, isn't it." The man said wryly, pulling off his glasses and wiping them on his shoulder, and attempting to clean the snot from his face on the short sleeve of his t-shirt.

He purred smugly.

"You're lucky you're cute." The man told him, rubbing a pointed ear.

_Damn right I am._ He purred, eyes closing in satisfaction.

* * *

><p><em>AN: <em>_In America we have a saying about cats: 'You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats.' I've found this to be largely true. T__hose of you who work with animals will find a lot of this familiar._

_I have never rescued a cat that didn't sneeze in my face shortly afterward. _

_When I first started writing this I was thinking Romano's cat would be a bit more...neurotic, but then I realized that even though he's probably fussy and sassy and a little guarded, Romano probably also spoils him rotten. Little prince kitten! Cute. Of course America's cat is Mister Curious and Friendly, one of those cats that just loves to explore and gets into everything. One of those cats who likes to meet people and animals doesn't get fussed even when they don't necessarily feel the same way. He's a pretty chill and friendly cat! I see him as a Maine Coon cross. _

_Oh! I learned some interesting things about South Italy and cats. Did you know they're protected in Rome? There's all kinds of laws giving them special priviledges and rights. I'd tell you more, but I'm trying to write- so if you're interested, look up 'Gatti de Roma'! Or just type in 'cats Rome' into the search engine, that works too. _


	10. I'd Rather Be Fishing 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_This is not, and will not become (to the best of my knowledge) a story, exactly. You see, frequently, every day or several times a day, I have random Romerica scenes run through my head which have nothing to do with any stories (along with the ones which do)...more like, a slice of life type things, or character studies perhaps. Or just Things That Happen. Sometimes I write them down, but more often I don't, but I've often wondered if I ought. _

_So a little while back I was visiting my oft-forgotten-and-deeply-neglected dA account, and thought...'I ought to update this thing more often. What would make me visit dA more frequently?' and it occurred to me that I could throw up some of these random scenes into the journal there. I could do it every day or several times a week, at my leisure and as the scenes occurred, and then I'd remember that the bloody account existed. So I dropped in and wrote up a little scene that had been on my mind, and posted it, figuring that I'd come back the next day and post another, and perhaps update my gallery. I'd thought it'd go unnoticed for some time, and perhaps in a month or two someone would notice I'd been updating the journal frequently, and they'd have a nice little Romano/America-themed archive to go through. _

_But the next day when I came back I'd gotten some very nice feedback on it; which took me completely by surprise. And then I felt awkward and embarrassed and pleased and a bit bewildered all at once, and a bit confused as to how to proceed. It was just a lot of randomness, really. What if the next one wasn't as good? Ought I continue the previous scene? I'd considered it, but hadn't intended to...well, I'd intended to eventually, because it was already in my mind, but the next one I had planned to be a different scenario entirely...would people be disappointed? I didn't even know people were reading it! If I added new Romerica stuff everyday, would it look like I was trying to capitalise on the attention? I felt like a dog who has done a good trick completely by accident and isn't sure what it is that it did or is supposed to do next._

_So I didn't post anything, and dithered over it for a few days, and then decided I was being **completely** silly, because I love to write and I'm going to write **anyway**, and since when did I worry about what people think about what I do? (Although I will admit I do tend to be a bit self-conscious about my writing, in part because it's something I have little control over, and I'm not used to not having complete control. How do you ensure quality if you don't have control?)_

_And then I lost my contacts, and since I can't wear my glasses with the stitches behind my ear, I ended up not writing at all for most of the week (which is why I'm throwing this up here, since I haven't had a chance to get any other chapters finished and thought you might like to have a thing to tide you over)._

_Life is such an interesting thing, isn't it?_

_Anyway, I shall be updating my bloody dA journal with random stuff. Most likely not everyday, though. Some scenes will be connected, some shan't, and some shan't be scenes at all. It will be what it will be._

_Now let's move on from the Saga of Me, shall we? _

* * *

><p>Romano goes out with him. Not just on dates, to restaurants and movies and parties and all that, although there's that too; but <em>outside<em> with him. America loves the outdoors, all of it; forests and mountains, deserts, caves, oceans, rain or shine, night and day; he loves to be out in it and experience it all (even the snow, but temperatures below fifteen degrees can go fuck themselves). But Romano likes the sun on his skin and earth underfoot almost as much as America does, and allows his lover to drag him out on camping trips and walks and wilderness explorations (as long as America carries their gear and promises to protect him from the wild animals and other dangers that might crop up— except ghosts, which is Romano's job; but that's another story).  
>One of the unexpected perks of bringing Romano along is that Romano knows a lot about wild herbs <em>and<em> how to cook. And he doesn't mind if America hunts, in fact he _appreciates_ it, is _pleased_ when America catches fish or rabbits or ducks (as long as America cleans them, first), and does amazing things with them over the fire or the little propane camp stove America brings along for trips where there's not likely to be much firewood. America's never eaten so well in the wilderness as he does when Romano's along. (He's learned not to bring back anything larger than a goose while they're camping, though. Romano doesn't mind if he brings bigger game like deer or bear home when they're, well, _home,_where there's a freezer readily available, but out in the wilderness it's 'too damn much meat and takes too damn long to cook, bastard. And just who do you expect is going to carry all that, exactly?')

But the moments he loves best may be the ones like these; when they find a stream, and Romano kicks off his shoes and wades in, clear water around his ankles and rounded pebbles between his toes, and almost smiles in the dappled shadows of the trees.  
>America watches, drinking it in.<br>After a few minutes Romano wades to the edge of the stream and settles down on the bank, letting his feet dangle in the water, and turns to look at him. America sets their camping gear down and pulls off his shirt, kicking off his shoes and busying himself rolling up his pantlegs.  
>It's time to go fishing.<br>He wades into the middle of the stream, where the water runs cool below his knees. There he stops and stretches, closing his eyes and spreading his fingers to feel the slow, barely-there breeze flowing between them, soft against his skin, its warmth a sharp contrast to the coolness of the water flowing almost just as slowly around his legs and feet. Exhaling, he lowers his arms, turning his gaze to the water below, searching out deeper, shadowed sections of the riverbed, where the water is deep and still, the sort of place fish like to hide in the middle of the day. There's a cluster of large rocks a few yards down where the riverbed dips and the water pools which looks promising; and the riverbank near where Romano sits overhangs a little, causing a shaded nook that would make another good hiding place. He can see both places pretty well from here, so now all he has to do is be patient and watch for the movement of a fin in the shadows; if there are any fish in either spot, he'll see one eventually. It's just a matter of time.  
>He settles in to wait.<br>He doesn't have to wait long, as it turns out— barely ten minutes have passed before Romano frowns absently, and shifts his foot incrementally in the water, drawing America's attention. "Romano," he says softly, lifting a hand to indicate that he should remain still, "don't move."  
>Romano frowns at him, brows furrowing in question.<br>"There's a fish," America explains, just as softly. "By your feet."  
>Romano looks down, and leans slowly forward, trying not to move his legs as he tries to see for himself what's been brushing against his feet. Sure enough, there's a fish underneath him, edging out from under the riverbank to nibble at his toes.<br>"What is it doing?" He asks, mystified; although it's pretty damn clear what it's trying to do. It tickles, and is kind of weird to see; a silver-brown, undulating body in the water under his feet, checking out his toes for edibility. He holds his breath and tries not to move in reaction to the odd sensation as it nibbles his toepads, waiting for America to do his thing.  
>"Eating your toes." America answers matter-of-factly, and moves slowly towards him, careful not to disrupt the riverbed or water enough to alarm the fish. Once he's a foot or so from Romano he leans over, dipping his hand smoothly into the stream and under the fish. His expression is focused as he gently strokes its belly with his fingers, and soon the tickling against Romano's skin stops as the fish goes still, fins waving lazily; and before Romano knows what's happened, America's holding a fat, wriggling trout by the gills with a victorious whoop.<br>"Told you your toes are delicious." America grins, and Romano blushes and kicks water at him and calls him an idiot, because really that's the only logical response to something like that. America laughs, and climbs out of the water to clean his catch, and Romano settles back against the riverbank to relax until he's done and it's time to set up camp and cook.

* * *

><p><em>AN: This scene will most likely be continued eventually, although probably on my journal and not here, and probably sporadically, interspersed with other things. <em>

_Catching fish by hand is my personal favourite method, although I usually let them go afterward. I hear it's illegal in many places, though? Which seems odd to me. _


	11. Totally Not What It Looks Like

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_Another preview to tide you over. Probably going to be a shorter story, although I know better than to make any promises on that score. It started out as a Valentine's story, and then it wasn't. _

* * *

><p><em>Today's the day. I'm going to do this. <em>____As soon as I see America, I'm going to tell him how I feel. ____Romano's stomach twisted in apprehension as he strode down the halls to the meeting room, his hands shaking and sweaty as they clutched his paperwork. Today was the day he was going to confess his love to America. No,___ _definitely_.___ As soon as he saw him, he'd pull him aside, and___ ... _No, I can't tell him right away, he'll be busy getting ready._ _During the break. During the first break, I'll tell him. No, wait, that's only fifteen minutes. That's not long enough to confess. Lunch is an hour, I'll tell him during lunch. No, no, after the meeting would be better, right? After the meeting. ___Right___ after the meeting I'm going to tell the bastard how I feel.____

"And then you'll chicken out and end up not telling him at all, as always." France's voice said close to his ear.

"Auugh!" Romano screamed, leaping sideways and plastering himself against the wall, glaring at the nation who stood smirking at him. Since when had France learned to read minds?

"You were talking to yourself." France answered his unasked question, and lifted a hand to pretend to examine his manicure, shaking his head. "That is what will happen, you know. It always does. You hesitate, and lose your chance."

"Che." Romano pushed himself off the wall and continuing down the hall. "Who asked you, bastard."

"I'm simply saying that he won't stay single forever." France fell into step behind him, unnerving Romano no end. "If you wait too long to tell him, you'll miss your chance altogether."

"I, I know that!" Romano scowled, flushing unhappily.

"Do you?" France asked airily, sliding his arm around Romano's shoulders (ignoring all attempts to shrug him off). In all honesty he was fairly confident Romano had stayed up nights worrying about that very possibility, but he was hoping the reminder would give the hesitant lover-in-potentia the push he needed to act on his feelings before it really _was_ too late.

"Yes, dammit, I do."

"Then _tell_ him." France said seriously. "Not after the meeting, not tomorrow, or some far-off day in the future which may never come; but _today_, at the first opportunity. The moment you next see him, _tell him_."

Romano pursed his lips, staring hard at nothing in particular on the wall. "...Why do you care so much, anyway." He said finally, knocking France's arm off his shoulders. "I don't see what business it is of yours."

"Ah, little Italy, don't you know?" France spread his arms theatrically. "_L'amour_ _is_ my business!"

"Whose love is your business, bastard!"

"Come now, Romano~!" France chided, poking the Italian's cheek as they walked along. "Don't be such a—"

"...don't know, America." They heard a woman's voice say, and rounded the corner to see Ukraine and America standing together a few yards away. Ukraine held a small bouquet of purple flowers close to her expansive chest, glancing between them and the man who appeared to be waiting anxiously for whatever she was about to say. Both were blushing a little. "It's _very_ flattering, but... I don't know if...if it's such a good idea."

"You don't have to answer right away." America said earnestly, expression hopeful and determined despite the blush colouring his cheeks. "Take some time to think about it. I know that things between your brother and me have been ..tense sometimes, but I don't think that should interfere with something like this! Just give it a chance, please?"

Ukraine hesitated, biting her lip in indecision, and America rubbed the back of his neck, looking thoughtful. He smiled when he came up with an idea, and raised a finger as he proposed, "How about this: one date, and if you don't like it, then you can forget all about it; and if you _do_, then we can maybe try another date, and so on, until you decide one way or the other. Okay?"

Ukraine looked at the flowers she held, and caressed a petal with her fingertips. "Since the early twentieth century, you said?"

"Honestly, I think it might have been longer." America grinned a little sheepishly.

She lowered her eyes, touched, her cheeks flushing as she buried her nose in the flowers. "That's so sweet." After a moment she sighed, and lay her hand on America's arm. "Alright, America. I'll go on one date. And then we'll see."

"Great!" America pumped his fist in victory, smiling ear-to-ear, causing Ukraine to giggle at his antics. "Thank you! You won't regret it, Ukraine! You'll see!"

Romano stood frozen, his heart slowly tearing in two at the scene before him. _He was too late. _He'd waited too long. His stomach churned, and he felt sick. France glanced sidelong at him, and back to the scene ahead, frowning.

"Just let me know when and where, mister America~." Ukraine laughed, waving as she moved past him and continued down the hall to the meeting room. "I'll be waiting~!"

"You bet! Thanks again!" America waved after her, turning to do a little victory dance in the hall. "Oh yeah. Fuck yeah! Who did it? I did it! Who's awesome? I'm awesome~! Oh yea— Fuck!" He stopped, slapping himself in the forehead, eyes widening in realization. "Now I have to plan an actual date! _Damn._" He pressed his knuckles to his lips, frowning in consternation. "Shiiiit, I didn't think about that part! What am I going to do?"

It was then he finally noticed France and Romano. "Oh! Hey guys!" He grinned and waved, perking up at the sight of them, and began walking towards them. "France, you're good at romantic stuff, right? I could really use your help."

"My dear boy you are speaking to the _master_ of romance~." France announced proudly, pressing one hand to his heart and gesturing grandly with the other. "There is no-one in the entire world who knows more about love than I."

"Really? Great!" America smiled, relieved. His problems were over! "I need some help planning a date. For a woman. A _really good_ date. Something _spectacular_, that'll sweep her off her feet and make it _impossible_ for her to turn down another one. Can you help me do that?"

"Ahhh~, I'd love to, America." France smiled regretfully, shaking his head. "But alas, I'm far too busy. But!" He interjected, as America's face fell, and threw his arm around Romano's shoulders. "South Italy is _almost_ as good at romance as I am." He smiled proprietorially, patting the Italian's back. "I've taught him almost _everything_ I know. I think of him as my little 'love apprentice', _n'est–ce pas?"_ He laughed softly, winking. "_And_ he's totally, completely and _utterly _available, in _every_ sense of the word. If it's love you're after, you should look to him, hm? I'm sure he'd be _delighted_ to attend to _any_ of your needs." He assured, his confident words in stark contrast to the stricken, anything-but-delighted expression on Romano's face.

"Really?" America looked at him for a moment, a little doubtful, because South Italy didn't _look_ particularly happy about the idea, but shrugged, grabbing one of Romano's hands. "Will you help me, South Italy? I _really_ need this date to be perfect. I could really use your help!"

Romano opened his mouth to say _no I will not help you date Ukraine, **I** love you, you stupid bastard. I've loved you for a long fucking time, and I'm **not** going to help you fall in love with someone else, dammit;_ but America's wide, hopeful blue eyes and pleading expression made his throat sieze up, and he couldn't get the words out.

"Please?" America pleaded softly, earnestly. "This is really important to me, South Italy. I'll do anything."

Romano's face heated up, and he dropped his gaze, hating himself. "...Fine."

America smiled, lighting up with gratitude and relief. "Great. Thank you!" He dropped Romano's hand and straightened. "I'll meet up with you after the meeting's over, and we can discuss the details, okay? Thank you so much! I really owe you one!" He ran a hand through his hair and grinned, waving as he turned to leave for the conference room. "You're the best, South Italy! Catch you later!" Romano nodded dumbly, staring at the floor.

"Well, I think that went well, don't you?" France smiled in smug satisfaction, which turned to a frown of concern when the only response from the Italian beside him was a thick, choked sobbing sound. "...Romano?" He looked over to see Romano scrubbing at his eyes with both hands.

"D-don't t-talk to m-me, idiot." Romano gasped, swallowing his sobs. "I _hate_ you. I fucking _h-hate_ you."

"Ungrateful child." France chided, frowning in exasperation, and firmly grasped Romano's arm, steering into a nearby breakroom. He shut the door behind them and locked it, pushing Romano into a chair, and going to the cupboard he pulled out a cup, which he filled with water, scolding all the while, "After all I have done for you. I've just saved you! Don't you see that this is your chance?" He finished, handing the cup to Romano.

"W-what the fuck are you _talking_ about, bastard? It's too late!" Romano swallowed a little water, grateful for the cool liquid that eased some of the tightness in his throat. He lowered the cup, sniffling. "I waited too long, and I lost him. It's _hopeless,_ dammit."

"It only seems hopeless because you're not looking at it the right way. It's not an ending, it's an opportunity!" France pulled his handkerchief from his inside pocket and crouched down next to Romano's chair, wiping his tear-stained cheeks. "By agreeing to help him plan this date, you've made an opening for yourself!"

"What?" Romano sniffled again, and looked up, brows furrowed in confusion. "How is helping him date Ukraine supposed to help _me?"_

"Honestly, you have no vision." France shook his head, despairing. "Don't you see?" He pulled up a chair next to Romano, and sat down. "You're going to be helping him plan a romantic date wth Ukraine. You'll be meeting with him to talk about romantic things. He knows _nothing_ about romance, and as his instructor in these things _you_ will have the power, and set the rules. Tell him you need to meet with him often. To plan. Take him out to 'test' date ideas. Mock-dates. For every date he has with Ukraine, you'll have had five!" He gestured emphatically. "Use that time to _win_ him! Make him see that you're _far_ better for him than Ukraine will _ever_ be!" He pounded the table, reiterating, "This is your _chance!"_

Romano wiped at his eye, frowning. "But...what if the first date doesn't go well? He'll hate me. And we won't have any reason to see each other anymore."

"Why should he hate you? You will have worked so _hard_ to help him plan the 'perfect date'." France dismissed with a wave of his hand. "If Ukraine doesn't appreciate it, then alas, such is love! It wasn't meant to be. And you shall be there to comfort him in his sorrow."

Romano pursed his lips, staring into his cup. It _sounded_ like a good idea when France said it, but...he felt a little uncomfortable with the idea. He wanted to be with America, sure, but... "Why do you care so much, anyway, France?" He questioned, frowning. "What difference does it make to _you_ who America's with?"

France frowned, too. "I've known you both a very long time." He sighed, resting his arm on the table. "And I care for you both. I think of you as my little brothers. And it's a big brother's job to look after his little brother's happiness." He ran his hand through his long hair in a gesture very similar to the one Romano had seen America use often. "Ukraine is a lovely young woman, with many good qualities; but I do not think she is the best match for my little America. There are...too many differences, in their values and personalities and ways of thinking." He waved a hand vaguely. "Sometimes such differences can strengthen a relationship, but in this case, I think it would cause conflict. Too much conflict. I want him to be happy." He turned his gaze to Romano, expression serious. "And I want _you_ to be happy, my little Romano." He said frankly, and Romano stared at him, clutching his cup tightly as the tightness returned to his throat, and tears stung his nose. "For too long you have not been so. Far too long. I know you feel overlooked, in the shadow of your brother, and perhaps this is often so; but it does not mean you are not loved, Romano. You deserve to be cared for. And," he added, a little more lightly, pretending not to see Romano's tears, "it is a good match. You will be good for him. He needs _you_, not Ukraine or anyone else, as sweet as they may be."

Romano sniffed, wiping his cheeks, and sat quietly for a minute. "...You really think so?"

"I do." France smiled softly. "You will be good for each other. So," he straightened, clapping his hands. "Do not let this opportunity pass you by, Romano Italy, or big brother shall be _very upset_. Win him over!""

"Che," Romano scoffed, swallowing the last of the water. "I won't lose. Just you watch me, bastard."

"Of course!" France laughed, rising and gesturing to the door. "Now come, we are late for the meeting. You wouldn't want to miss it. You must take advantage of every opportunity to gain America's attention, even if others are around at the time." Romano nodded, putting the cup down and rising as well. "And to that end," France beamed, throwing the door open and lunging for the Italian, "you must take off your clothes and attend the meeting naked! Come, I'll help!"

"Hell no, asshole!" Romano dodged out of his reach with reflexes borne of long practice, and darted for the door, kicking him in the shins on the way out. "You really are just a pervert after all!"

* * *

><p><em>AN: Totally not what it looked like, guys. <em>


	12. It's How You Use It

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia**

_Established relationship. Completed drabbly-thingy. _

* * *

><p>"Wait, what are you wearing? Where did you get those? You're not planning on wearing those, are you bastard? Not to the beach." Romano pales, taking in his boyfriend's beach attire.<p>

America glances between the knee-length board shorts he's wearing, and his boyfriend's apalled expression. "What's wrong with them?" He asks, curious. "I wear these all the time back home. They're comfortable." He looks down, checking them over for any rips he might have missed or food spills, but they're clean and intact. "They cover everything up," He adds, in case that's Romano's concern.

That's the problem! Romano doesn't say, and flails a little. "You can't wear those! No-one here wears suits that big! If my people see those they'll think you- they'll think-" he gestures, reddening, too embarrassed to explain that they'll think his boyfriend has something to be ashamed of in the shorts department. "They'll think you're...hiding something." He mutters, lamely.

America looks at him, puzzled, for a moment, and then his face clears in comprehension. "I'm not carrying any guns in my trunks." He says, a little exasperatedly. "Promise."

Romano gives up. He'll let America wear the stupid shorts. The color and cut isn't bad, and they actually look pretty good on the blond, even if they don't display certain... assets... as much as he'd like. If he was wearing them in America, Romano wouldn't blink twice. Maybe it won't be as bad as he thinks.

It's worse. An hour after they've arrived at the beach, Romano's almost at his limit. He doesn't know what's upsetting him more: the pitying looks being cast in his direction, or the derisive ones being cast in America's. America, of course, is completely oblivious to either, and having loads of fun building sandcastles and chasing seagulls up and down the beach, but _Romano_ can read the damn atmosphere and doesn't like it at all.

It's a far cry from the sort of looks he's used to when he's out with America. Admiration, approving murmurs, open appreciation frequently tinged with desire; these are the things he's accustomed to. And despite the fact that the _visible_ areas of America's sculpted frame and lithe body are fucking _gorgeous_, that his bright blue eyes and golden skin and hair are shining with sunlight and life, his beautiful smile rivaling the sun above them, it doesn't matter; because what everyone's _looking_ at is what they _can't see_.

_Damn _those board shorts. Damn them straight to hell. When they get home they are going to _burn_.

But the damage is done. By nightfall news of his boyfriend's— _completely fabricated_— inadequacies will have spread like wildfire. By morning the whole town will have heard the 'news'.

Romano grits his teeth, trying not to run down the beach to pin America down and _force_ him into a decent pair of briefs— he has an extra pair in his beach bag, since Veneziano tends to lose his (sure they might be a little small, but better too small than huge and _baggy_), or even rip those fucking shorts right off him so _everyone_ can see it's not true. But that would embarrass America, and America would be upset with him and that would be even worse than the whispers and looks— just barely, but enough to hold him back, for now.

And then a sweet, elderly woman comes up to him and puts a soft, understanding hand on his arm. "It's okay," she says in tones of deep sympathy. "Size isn't that important. He seems like a very _nice_ young man. I'm sure he has other qualities that make up for it. Sexual satisfaction isn't everything, you know?" She smiles, patting him comfortingly, before moving on.

Romano stares after her for a few seconds, and then turns back to America, who is sitting in the sand poking curiously at a hermit crab, oblivious to everything else. As if sensing his gaze, America looks up, catching his eyes, and smiles and waves sunnily before standing, tugging up his shorts which were beginning to slide too far down his hips for his comfort.

Someone behind Romano snickers. Romano scowls, looking around, but trying to figure out who it was in this crowd is futile, so he turns back to the beach, where America's started to build a sandcastle for the hermit crab.

Romano narrows his eyes. After a moment, he heads determinedly towards the ocean.

America looks up and smiles in welcome as he approaches, "Hey 'Mano, look at this castle I'm building for Kermit! I met him on the beach. Isn't it cool?"

"It's nice, bastard." Romano comments, glancing down at it briefly. "Look, I'm going swimming."

"Okay." America nods, carefully working on a turret. "Once I finish this up I'll join you."

"Sounds good." Romano agrees, and heads into the surf. He wades out until the water is above his waist, and begins to swim, heading away from the shore. He swims out to where the water's deep, deep enough to dive, and stops, treading water. He takes a few steadying breaths, steeling himself for what he's about to do. He can do this. It's a sacrifice, but it's for the greater good. He's doing this for _America_.

With that in mind, he tugs off his swim briefs, takes a deep breath, and dives. Once he reaches the bottom of the ocean he wedges his briefs under a rock— with some regret, because they're lovely designer shorts, his favourite pair, worth over $200— but this isn't about him, it's for _America_, so he'll take the hit. Once he's sure they're secured he heads back to the surface and towards the shore. When the water's just about waist height again he stops and stands. "America! Oi, America! I need your help, bastard!"

America immediately abandons his sand-architecture to hurry to Romano's aid. "What's wrong?" He asks anxiously as he approaches, scanning the area for sharks or communist submarines or anything else that might threaten Romano. "Are you okay?"

"Just... come here." Romano doesn't have to fake his blush, a little embarrassed about what he's about to do. America obeys, wading closer to stand next to him, and having failed to locate any potential threats, he turns his full attention to his boyfriend, frowning in concern.

"What's wrong?"

"I...I lost my swimsuit." Romano tells him, holding his hands in front of himself under the water.

"How'd you manage that?" America's eyes flicker down, but frankly Romano's suit was so small that he can't tell the difference with Romano's hands in the way, but there's really no reason to disbelieve it. Still though, he's never one to pass up an opportunity to see his baby's cute little butt, so he leans a bit, subtly tilting his head to check, and yep, naked cute little butt under the water. He grins. Aw.

"I...I was diving and th-they just got lost." Romano blushes deeper, noticing his boyfriend's actions.

"Oh. Well, I'll go and find them for you!" America offers helpfully, turning to head out into the ocean and search for his boyfriend's tiny swimshorts. "Wait here, I'll be right back!"

"What? No!" Romano reaches out to grab America's arm. "Are you nuts? You'll never find them out there!"

"Sure I will." America gives him a confident smile, and winks. "I'm the hero! And if I have any trouble, I'll ask my whale friend to help me look. Don't worry."

"No! N-no, I...I..." Crap, this isn't working. Romano casts around for a way to keep America here. "I, I hurt my foot, too. It, it got caught. I think it needs ice. And, and I'm hungry. _Really_ hungry. I want to go back to the beach."

America turns back to him, frowning in concern. "Okay, I'll carry you back." He reaches for Romano, who puts a hand on his chest, stopping him.

"Wait! I'm, I'm naked."

America's eyes narrow. He's not about to let anyone else see Romano naked. Everything between Romano's hips and thighs is for_ his eyes only_. Well, only one thing to do. "Here." He says decidedly, pulling off his board shorts and holding them out for his boyfriend. "Wear these."

"Th-thank you." Romano took them gratefully, biting back a triumphant smile as he pulled them on. America helped him pull the laces tight so the shorts wouldn't fall off, and scooped him up.

"Let's get you back to shore." He says, smiling and hefting Romano in his arms, happy for an opportunity to play the hero to his beloved 'not-a-damsel, dammit'-in-distress.

"You know you're naked, right bastard?" Romano almost-smiles, wrapping his arms loosely around America's neck, and America smiles down at him.

"I don't mind. Anything for you, babe." He assures him, kissing his cheek. "As long as you're happy, I'm happy."

"Don't worry," Romano grins with smug anticipation, looking towards the shore. "In a few minutes everything's gonna be _just fine."_

* * *

><p><em>AN: Inspired by a quote from a woman in Sicily discussing with her friends why they didn't care for men in swim trunks instead of briefs: "Whenever I see a man in trunks, I can't help but think he has something to hide."<em>

_This isn't going to be turned into a story or anything...it's more of a drabble I wrote and didn't know what else to do with. It's complete, but seemed too unpolished to stand on its own as a oneshot and too long to post to tumblr— which I think I am pretty much spamming anyway. _


	13. Bang Bang

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

__This has been sitting in my files for over a year, thought I'd throw it here and give you something to let you know I'm not dead. This story won't be continued until after I finish at least two other stories, and will probably start updating around the same time as '_I'm Gonna Be'. _Don't quote me on that, because clearly updates are only marginally within my control.__

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><p>It was like a scene straight out of the pulps, he mused, waiting here in a dark alley down one of the back streets of the dirty city on this dark and stormy night. Like the dimes novels and penny dreadfuls Feliciano brought home, and read aloud to him and that asshole Beilschmidt, who always seemed to be over for dinner these days. Surprising that the uptight bastard would deign to grace the table of a 'dirty' cop —not that Lovino <em>was<em> dirty, but the only one who believed _that_ was his brother, and that idiot hardly a stellar character witness— but apparently his bond with Lovino's brother, Feliciano, was strong enough to overcome his disdain for Lovino.

('Good friends' his ass, he knew what those two got up to behind closed doors. But he couldn't begrudge them that, not now, not... under the circumstances. Besides, even though he and Beilschmidt didn't see eye-to-eye, even Lovino had to admit the man was a fine officer. One of the best. And the bastard looked out for Feliciano, and the way things were these days Lovino had to be grateful for that. Feliciano was his only family, now, and it was a weight off his shoulders to know that if anything happened to him, Feliciano would be taken care of.)

He turned his collar up against the rain and hunched into his overcoat, pulling the brim of his hat down over his face. It did little to protect him from the torrential downpour turning the streets into rivers and the city into a collection of hulking, amorphous shadows behind the curtains of water. The streetlamp nearby was no help, the dim orange light it cast only made the shadows deeper and twisting them into unrecognisable shapes.

He huddled closer to the wall, cursing the weather, the night, his shitty luck, and everything in-between, thinking of all the reasons he should turn around and leave, pretend he didn't know what he knew, hadn't overheard this information. He should be home right now. His shift had ended hours ago. He was going to catch his death of pneumonia. This wasn't even his beat. He was missing dinner, and Feliciano was probably worrying, especially since Beilschmidt wasn't there tonight (although he wasn't supposed to know about _that_, either).

He was probably going to _die,_ gunned down in this damned alley in the damned rain.

But he stayed, because he knew what he knew and he had to do _something_, because he _wasn't_ a dirty cop, because he couldn't let them keep spreading fear and crime and killing good cops and innocent people, and most of all he stayed for Feliciano, who believed in him, and for...for... he stopped that train of thought in its tracks. He wasn't going to think about... _him_, not...

He pushed back the surge of pain and longing and hurt and confusion that thoughts of..._him_...always brought on, staring determinedly at the door across the street from him, a dark outline in the rain and darkness.

He was doing this because _he_ _couldn't let them win_.

As if in response to his thoughts, he heard muted footsteps approaching, a sound he'd been listening for through the downpour. Heart racing, Lovino reached into his coat, shaking fingers curling around the handle of his gun. This was it. This was the moment that would change everything.

He waited until his prey had passed the alley he occupied, a shadowed figure in the dark and rain, and stepped out of the alley, raising his gun.

"Stop right there, asshole."

The figure froze, back to him.

"Don't. Move." He ordered, over the pounding rain. "Hands up. Where I can see them."

Slowly, the figure raised both hands.

"That's right. Nice and easy, bastard." He shifted, settling into a more stable stance, and adjusted his grip on the gun so it wouldn't slip in the rain. "Now, turn around. Slowly."

Moving slowly as ordered, the figure turned until it faced him, features obscured by shadows and rain. Lovino's eyes narrowed, his heart beating oddly. There was something about that silhouette... "Step forward. Into the light. Nice and easy, bastard." He repeated as the figure moved to comply. "No funny moves."

One step, two steps, steady and deliberate, into the circle of light under the lampost, which gleamed dimly off wet golden hair and glass lenses. "Hello, Lovi." The all-too-familiar figure greeted steadily, blue eyes watching him with an unreadable expression.

Lovino's eyes widened, and he lowered his gun, very nearly dropping it in his shock. "_Alfred?"_ His jaw firmed, and he raised his gun, trembling with hot rage and hurt and confusion (and _relief_ and _longing_). "Give me _one_ fucking reason why I shouldn't _kill_ you where you stand."

That mouth he remembered so fucking well twitched up. "I really can't, Lovi."

"Don't you _dare_ call me that._ Don't you fucking dare. _You have _no_ right. You _left. _After we... That night..." Lovino's voice was rough, and he was thankful for the darkness and the rain and his hat which masked the tears which flowed freely down his face, because this bastard didn't _deserve_ to see them. "I woke up and you were _gone_." His finger twitched on the trigger. "You _left_ me, asshole. _You never came back_."

Alfred continued to watch him with that same unreadable expression. His voice was calm and steady when he spoke. "I had...obligations." His left hand flexed almost imperceptibly as he said it, and Lovino's eye was drawn to the glint of gold off the band on the third finger, which hadn't been there before.

Fresh waves of _hurt_ and the sensation of _betrayal, betrayal, betrayed_ washed over him, overwhelming him, nearly bringing him to his knees. His eyes locked with Alfred's, his thumb automatically drawing back the hammer of his gun.

Alfred noticed the action. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Yes." Lovino answered, almost steadily. They stared at each other for several long moments.

Alfred's eyes flickered to the weapon and back up to Lovino's. "What are you waiting for?"

Lovino didn't know. He wasn't sure why he hadn't pulled the trigger already. But at least he hadn't lowered his gun. "I'm not here for you, bastard. I'm looking for... someone else."

"Oh?" Alfred arched an eyebrow in mock-curiousity. "You got a tip-off?"

"Yes, I—" Lovino paused as it finally occurred to him to wonder what Alfred was doing here, in a back alley where he was supposed to find a ruthless mob hitman. "No..."

Alfred gazed steadily back at him.

"No," Lovino's voice shook, and he paled as the blood drained from his face. It _couldn't_ be. He _wouldn't._ Not Alfred. His sweet, idealistic, idiotic, _innocent _Alfred. His Alfred wasn't a killer. "_No. _You _wouldn't_. Not you."

"You'd better kill me now," Alfred said conversationally, stepping towards him. "You might not get another chance."

"No." Lovino stepped backwards, away. "Not you." It wasn't true. He couldn't believe it. He _wouldn't _believe it.

"Yes." Each steady step Alfred took on the wet pavement matched the ones Lovino took backward as the blond advanced.

"_No."_ Lovino was pleading, now. _"No."_

"Yes." Alfred's soft reply was almost lost in the rain, but there was no mistaking the conviction in his voice.

Lovino continued his retreat, and Alfred his advance, matching him step for step; the muted rhythm of their shoes in the water running over the ground as they moved in tandem, against the musical rush of rain falling thick around them reminded Lovino incongruously of a dance, as did the almost predatory way Alfred stalked him, gaze intent.

"Aren't you going to shoot?" Alfred said mildly. "You know who I am. You know what I've done. How many people I've killed. Well," he huffed a humorless laugh, "no, you don't know about all of them. Not nearly all. Just the ones we _wanted_ you to hear about." A sardonic smirk played about the corners of his mouth and eyes. "To send a message in blood and death and fear, telling _your_ kind that _my_ kind can't be stopped."

"Shut up." Lovino ordered, firming his grip on his gun.

"Touched a nerve?" Alfred's smirk grew. "You know it's true. People like me are out here, on the streets and in your homes, doing as we please, and people like you are too fucking _good_ to do what it takes to stop us." Lovino's back hit a wall, halting his progress backwards, and Alfred stopped too, the end of the barrel of Lovino's gun a scant few inches from his sternum.

_"What are you waiting for?"_

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><p><em>AN: Like everyone, I have my '20's story. Lovino's a cop, because that makes way more sense to me than the alternative. Alfred is...in trouble. <em>

__Hope this finds you well!__

_ P.S. I feel I owe you guys a lot of information and explanations on a lot of things, but I must beg your forbearance a little longer. __  
><em>


	14. Take Good Care of My Baby

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_Was originally written to cheer up a friend and posted on my tumblr, now posted here with minor edits. Just letting you know I'm still alive! Not, alas, doing science, and writing ever-so-slowly, but alive and writing._

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><p>"Hey 'Mano, have you seen my lucky socks?"<p>

Lovino looked up from the couch where he lay reading to see his husband, Alfred, leaning over the back of it to stare at him hopefully. He raised an eyebrow. "Did you check the sock drawer?"

"Not yet," Alfred admitted, leaning on folded arms. "I thought I'd ask you first, you always know where stuff is."

That made Lovino roll his eyes. "Idiot." He responded, returning his attention to his book. "Check the sock drawer _first_, and if you can't find them there _then_ ask me."

"'Kay." Alfred pushed off the couch and left the room in search of his elusive footwear, and Lovino resumed reading. After a while Alfred called from the bedroom, "They're not in the drawer!"

"Check the hamper!" Lovino called back. He heard Alfred bustle around in the next room, and then silence.

"...Babe?" Alfred called hesitantly down the hall. "I thought Beppe was a boy cat?"

"He is." Lovino answered absently from the living room.

"Are you _sure?"_

"Of course I'm sure, what the fuck kind of question is that. He's got _balls_, idiot. You've seen them."

"Okay." A pause. "Well, do Italian cats ever switch genders?"

Lovino screwed up his face, and looked over at the door which led to the hall which led to the bedroom. "What the _fuck? _No! Of course they don't! What the fuck are you talking about?"

"...I think you'd better come see this for yourself."

Curious now, Lovino set his book down and clambered off the couch, heading to see what the heck was making Alfred act so weird.

He found his husband kneeling next the hamper in the closet, hovering over it and staring into it with a puzzled, curious expression. The blond looked up when he entered and quirked an eyebrow, waving him over. "You gotta see this." He said quietly, obviously trying not to disturb whatever was inside.

Cautiously, Lovino approached, leaning over next to his husband to peer into the wicker basket. There, nestled on top of a pile of dirty clothes, lay his cat, Giuseppe (Beppe for short). His _male_ cat. Who was industriously licking a small, mewling furry ball curled up against his stomach.

He blinked. "Is that..."

"It's a _kitten_." Alfred confirmed, still speaking in hushed tones. Lovino's brows furrowed, and he got down on his knees next to his boyfriend to make a closer examination of the new addition. The tiny creature was young, apparently only recently born. It looked as though its eyes hadn't even started to open, yet. Its ridiculously fuzzy (and gleamingly clean, thanks to Giuseppe's ministrations) baby fur was the same shade of fawn as Giuseppe's, too- though minus Giuseppe's brown patches. He reached cautiously into the basket, intending to pick the kitten up, and Giuseppe gave him a warning look.

"I won't hurt it," he reassured the older cat, "I promise." He reached in slowly, making it clear that he meant no harm, and gently scooped the kitten up under Giuseppe's watchful eye.

It barely fit into his palm, a tiny ball of fur and heat, and he visibily melted, petting its tiny head with a fingertip.

"Aww," Alfred melted too beside him, and leaned closer to touch the kitten as well, still speaking in a whisper. "It's so cute!"

Giuseppe, watching them both alertly, chirred pointedly.

"Yeah, okay." Lovino nodded, also speaking in hushed tones as he lowered the kitten back, placing it gently next to the anxious cat, who sniffed it protectively. "There's your baby."

They watched the pair, mesmerized, for a few moments, staying silent more out of a desire not to disturb the peaceful scene than an urge not to speak.

"Where the hell did it come from?" Lovino wondered quietly.

"I don't know. You don't think...?"

"It's not _possible_." Lovino said doubtfully. The kitten _did_ look an awful lot like Giuseppe...

"Then what is..." The door swung open as he spoke, and Alfred glanced over reflexively at the motion, and the words died on his lips. Seeing his reaction Lovino looked too. They both watched in dumbfounded silence as Alfred's cat, Armstrong, padded purposefully into the room, carrying another tiny, dark ball of fur in his mouth. The large white-and black Maine Coon cross ignored them completely, going around their legs and leaping up to balance on the edge of the hamper, where he, with great care, deposited the new kitten next to Giuseppe. That done he examined the other kitten, and touched noses with Giuseppe before leaping down from the basket and leaving the room.

The two men looked at the departing cat, then each other. "What the _fuck?"_ Said Lovino.

"I'd better follow him." Alfred said, his hero-instincts tingling. Lovino nodded as his husband started after the cat, and turned his own attention back to the hamper, where Giuseppe was now engrossed in washing the new kitten. The first one had fallen asleep, nuzzled deep in the soft fur of the older cat's belly.

Ten minutes or so later Alfred returned with Armstrong and another kitten cupped in his hands. Lovino took one look at his boyfriend's expression, and reached to take the kitten. "What's wrong?"

"Someone just _left_ them. In a box, by the side of the road." Alfred explained, clearly upset as he handed the kitten to Lovino. "They were _all alone_. Anything could have happened to them! They could have been _killed! _What kind of person would do that?"

"I don't know." Lovino's frown matched his husband's as he looked down at the orphaned kitten he clutched protectively to his chest. It nuzzled his shirt blindly, tiny eyes closed tight, and opened its little pink mouth in a mewl. A surge of mingled protectiveness and sadness— along with anger at whomever would leave these innocent, helpless babies out to die that way— filled him, pricking at his eyes. "People are assholes." He growled, blinking back tears.

He felt a paw placed gently on his knee, and he looked down to see Armstrong staring concernedly up at him with wide blue eyes.

"Meaahw." Armstrong purred comfortingly. He wiped his eyes, pulling himself together, and looked to see both cats staring at him and the kitten.

"You're right," he told the cats. "At least they're safe now. We'll give them a good home." He said determinedly, looking back down at the tiny kitten he held.

"Mrrrrr..." Giuseppe chirruped pointedly, and Lovino huffed a laugh, bending down to place the kitten next to the others. Giuseppe wasted no time in attending to business, and Armstrong leapt up into the basket was well, trying to squeeze in next to kittens and cat. He was a big cat— not fat, but built on a bigger scale than his companion, and long-furred— so it was tricky, and Giuseppe swatted him a few times when he jostled them a bit in his attempts to settle in, but soon they were all curled up together and both adults were contentedly purring, Giuseppe licking the kittens and Armstrong licking the kittens and Giuseppe.

"I guess we're all daddies now." Alfred crouched next to the basket to stare fondly at their cats and kittens, and smiled up at his husband. "I told you I'd give you babies someday." He teased.

"Idiot." Lovino snorted, fondly swatting the back of his husband's head. "You didn't even find them. Armstrong did."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Alfred admitted, reaching into the basket to scratch Armstrong's head. "Good job, Armstrong. Bringin' home the babies. You're our little hero."

Armstrong purred contentedly at him, and Alfred went to pet Giuseppe, too. "And you too, Beppe, nice work cleaning 'em up. You're both heroes, yes you are!" Giuseppe lifted his head to bat Alfred's hand away, annoyed at the intrusion when he was trying to get the kittens all washed and settled in. "Sorry, sorry. I'll let you work." Alfred apologised, amused, as he withdrew his hand.

"C'mon, Alfredo, let's let them be" Lovino sighed, reluctant to leave the adorable sight, but there was work to be done. "Let's go to the kitchen and heat up some milk."

"Why?" Alfred glanced up, puzzled.

Lovino gave him a _look_. "Because the kittens will be hungry, idiot." He said, shooing his husband out of the room. "And Giuseppe and Armstrong are _boy_ cats."

"Oh, right." Alfred grinned sheepishly, ruffling his hair. "Then I guess I'd better go out and get some bottles at the pet store.

"That's a good idea." Lovino nodded in agreement. "Make sure they're small enough for kittens. And hurry. Who knows how long since they last ate." He added, kissing Alfred's cheek and patting his behind to wish him luck on his trip to the store.

"I will." Alfred promised, kissing him back, and headed out to the car, while Lovino headed to the kitchen.

Alfred returned forty-five minutes later, loaded with kitten-sized bottles (tiny little things that Lovino wasn't sure at first would be sufficient, but they said 'for kittens' right on the packaging, so he dubiously accepted it), along with a bagful of cans of powdered milk formula designed especially for kittens, an extra litter box and toys 'to help with development'. He also had a couple of pamphlets full of information about raising orphaned kittens, which he read out loud to Lovino as the Italian washed the bottles to sterilize them and filled them with milk.

Giuseppe wasn't too pleased when they tried to 'horn in' on his parenting to feed the kittens, growling and swatting them when they tried to reach into the hamper. Armstrong was more amenable though, and helped calm him down by sitting on him, pinning him down with his larger frame and licking him thoroughly until Giuseppe saw that the kittens weren't going to be harmed in any way. The two older cats watched alertly until the feeding was done— Giuseppe keeping a sharp eye on his humans and kittens and Armstrong more curious about the process in general, coming up to sniff the bottles and kittens and their hands. But when Alfred tried to keep the kitten he held for a while after its bottle was put down, Armstrong drew the line, pointedly butting his hand out of the way to grasp the kitten in his mouth, carrying it to Giuseppe in the basket. Lovino snorted at them both, but learned from this and returned the kittens he held promptly after they were done, to Giuseppe's satisfaction.

"So what are we going to name them?" Alfred asked as they gathered the bottles and rose from the floor.

"I don't know." Lovino answered, and frowned as a thought occurred to him. "Maybe we shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because we'll have to find them new homes pretty soon." Lovino explained, following him out the door on their way to the kitchen to wash up. "Maybe we should let the people who adopt them give them names."

Alfred fumbled the bottles, nearly dropping them, and stared at Lovino with wide eyes. "We're not _keeping_ them? But they're our babies!"

Lovino stared back, pursing his lips in a frown. "We _can't_ keep them, bastard." He asserted, frown deepening. Truthfully, he didn't want to give them up any more than Alfred did. They'd only had the kittens for a few hours, but already the two had grown deeply attached. But, "The city limit here is 3 cats."

"Oh." Alfred's face fell, and he dropped the bottles into the sink. "I guess maybe we should start looking for good homes, then." He decided.

"Yeah." Lovino stared at the bottles, frowning.

"Maybe we can give them to family." Alfred suggested, turning on the water and grabbing a sponge. "That way we'll know how they're doing, and we can see them sometimes."

"That's not a bad idea," Lovino agreed, moving next to him to help dry. "And that way if they didn't take good care of the little bastards we could kick their asses."

"Haha, yeah." Alfred grinned, handing him the last bottle. "Nobody fucks with _our_ babies and gets away with it."

"Damn right." Lovino smirked, drying it with a towel. "But let's not worry about it too much yet." He added, lining it up on the counter next to the others. "We can't give them away until at _least_ after they're weaned, anyway, so we have lots of time yet."

"Yeah." Alfred agreed, bumping their shoulders together. "That won't be for a long while."

They shared a smile, feeling a lot more cheerful in the knowledge that they wouldn't have to say goodbye to their new babies for some time yet.

Time passed quickly, though, as it often does. Soon the kittens eyes were opened, and shortly after that they'd grown enough to be constantly underfoot and in everything, scampering across the floor and over the furniture and up Alfred and Lovino's legs, play-wrestling with Armstrong (who was surprisingly gentle with them, and loved letting the kittens 'defeat' him, allowing them to pile on top of them and gnaw fiercely on his fur and ears as he 'collapsed' on his side in a possum-esque heap); dropping in the middle of their play for random naps and rising just as quickly to do it all over again, and all-in-all driving poor Giuseppe to exhaustion trying to keep them corralled and washed.

Alfred and Lovino tried not to notice when the kittens started showing more and more interest in their feline parents' solid food as the weeks passed.

"We're going to have to wean them soon." Alfred said subduedly, cradling the kitten he was bottle feeding.

Lovino looked up from his own kittens, both sprawled contentedly in his lap eagerly nursing their bottles, and said nothing.

"They're almost eight weeks." Alfred continued after a moment. "They're supposed to be weaned around seven to ten weeks."

"They're too young." Lovino said shortly. Alfred looked at him.

Lovino looked back. "They're not ready." He defended. "Some kittens grow up slower. We don't want to rush them."

"Yeah." Alfred agreed, looking back down at the kitten in his arms. "That's true."

"It says here kittens should be weaned no later than twelve weeks." Alfred said later, sitting at the table reading from the pamphlets after their own dinner was finished. "Or it can cause nutritional and socialization issues."

"Why do you keep bringing this up?" Lovino scowled, loading the dishes into the dishwasher with a little more force than was strictly necessary. "I thought you didn't want to give them away, bastard."

"I don't. But I don't want to do what's not good for them, either." Alfred sighed, setting down the pamphlet. "I was hoping it would say that we could keep them longer." He rubbed his face. "But, it does say that even though you _can _wean them at seven weeks it's best not to wean them completely before at _least_ ten weeks." He added. "So that's something."

Lovino grunted, shutting the dishwasher and turning it on. One of the kittens scampered into the kitchen, climbing up his leg. "Hey," he said, scooping it up for cuddles. "What're you doing, little idiot." It purred at him, butting his chin with its head. Alfred smiled.

The doorbell rang.

"Can you get that? I'm busy." Lovino said, playing with the cat.

"Sure thing." Alfred rose and left the kitchen, returning a short while later with their guest in tow— Gilbert, their mutual sort-of brother-in-law (since he was Lovino's brother's boyfriend's big brother, and Alfred's brother's boyfriend, in an impressive attempt at an alliterative state-of-relation).

"It's Gil," Alfred announced unnecessarily, since Lovino had eyes.

"Hey," Gilbert waved, sauntering into the kitchen after Alfred. "I'm just here to borrow your crepe pan. I used Mattie's for— Oh hey, haHAHA! LOOKIT YOU!" This was to the kitten which had darted out from under the table to mount a fearsome attack on his shoelaces. "Tough guy, eh?" He scooped the kitten up, tickling its tummy, and laughed when it swatted his nose. "Oh? OH? You think you can beat my awesome self?" He asked, cradling it in his arms like a baby and playing with its paws as it batted at his fingers. "Who do you think you are, Friedrich the Great? AHAHAHA!"

"Don't be so rough with him, bastard." Lovino demanded, hefting the kitten he held and preparing to intervene.

"It's alright, he LIKES IT!" Prussia countered, ruffling the kitten's fawn-colored fur. "Don'tcha, DONTCHA? WAHAhaha."

"He does seem to like it," Alfred observed, watching with amused interest.

Indeed, the little kitten was purring loud enough to be heard all through the kitchen. Lovino scowled, turning to rummage through the cupboard for the crepe pan. "Here," he said, crossing the floor and thrusting it at their alliterative relation. "Here. Now you can GO AWAY."

"Oh, thanks." Prussia shifted the kitten in his arms and took the pan, tucking it under his arm so he could resume playing. "When did you guys get kittens, anyway?"

"A couple months ago," Alfred informed him. "Giuseppe and Armstrong brought home some orphaned kittens."

"Orphans, eh?" Prussia ruffled the kitten's ears. "No wonder you're so tough! You gotta be a tough without any parents. And you are, aren'tcha? He's a FIGHTER! HA!"

"They have parents." Lovino asserted, narrowing his eyes. "Alfred and I have been raising them. And the cats, too. They're _fine_."

"I can see that," Prussia agreed, poking a round belly. "Little chubby, eh Friedrich? Al been feeding you hamburgers?" Before Lovino could protest again he continued. "Hey, you got a home for this little guy yet? Now that Mattie and I have our own place we've been thinkin' of gettin' a pet, and I'm kinda fallin' in love with this awesome little bastard." He hefted the kitten up, nuzzling its tummy. "Yes you are AWESOME aren't you Friedrich? AREN'T YOU, hakesesese~."

Alfred and Lovino exchanged a glance, and a mental conversation. Lovino scowled. Alfred quirked an eyebrow. Lovino looked away, jaw tightening. Alfred turned to Prussia, who'd missed all this in playing with the kitten.

"They're not ready to wean yet," Alfred said, "but if Mattie agrees you should be able to pick him up in two weeks."

"That's fine," Prussia agreed, focused on the cat. "That'll give me time to get everything set up for little Friedrich. Mattie's gonna LOVE YOU, yes he IS!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, snapping a picture of the kitten in his arms. "Okay little man, daddy's gotta go." He said as he slid the phone back into his pocket, kissing the cat on the nose and setting it down. "I'll SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS!" He waved, turning to go. The kitten followed him to the door and pawed it, mewling, after he'd gone. Lovino watched it, crossing his arms and screwing up his face.

"Aw, c'mon." Alfred said, seeing this, and gathered him him in his arms, kissing the top of his head. "We knew it had to happen eventually, right? At least he's going to a good home." He soothed, rubbing hishusband's back. Lovino buried his face in Alfred's chest, eyes and nose stinging.

"They're our _babies."_ He protested, sniffling.

"I know." Alfred kissed his hair, squeezing him. "I know. But we'll still see him, right? And you know Mattie'll take good care of him. And Gil's gonna spoil him rotten."

"I guess." Lovino muttered.

"And if he doesn't, we can pound him flat." Alfred added.

Lovino smiled.

A few days later, they had another unexpected visitor. "Gilbert told us you had kittens!" Feliciano wasted no time announcing the reason for his visit the moment they opened the door. "I want to see!"

"Don't you already have two cats?" Lovino asked, closing the door behind his brother.

"Yes, we do!" Feliciano agreed, following his brother down the hall to the living room, where Alfred was playing with their little cat family. "But I want to get one for Kiku. Tama-chan gets lonely when Kiku's at work, and I think he needs a friend."

"Hn." Lovino pursed his lips, thinking. He didn't mind Kiku, the man was reasonable and gentle, and one of Alfred's friends as well as his brother's.

"Oooohhhaa_awwww they're adorable!_" Feliciano squealed upon seeing the kittens, and threw himself onto the floor to see them up close. They swarmed the new arrival, crawling all over him, while he giggled and squirmed. Giuseppe and Armstrong, curled up together nearby, opened their eyes to see what all the noise was about, but it was only Feliciano, who was harmless; so they went back to sleep. "Oh this one's perfect!" Feliciano exclaimed, catching up one of the kittens. "She's got little white paws like Kiku's kitty Tama," he pointed, beaming, "and brown fur like my Gino and grey fur like Ludwig's Wilhelm! It's like they all had a baby together!"

Alfred laughed. "Don't you already have two cats though? You sure Wilhelm can handle it? Gino's kind of a handful." He grinned, correcting, "Or, pawful."

"Oh, it's not for me and Ludwig." Feliciano explained, rolling onto his back and placing the kitten on his chest. "I want to get Kiku a friend for Tama."

"Oh," Alfred said, considering, and nodded. "That isn't a bad idea. Tama's alone most of the day while he's at work, right? He could use a friend." He reached out, tickling the kitten's ear. "And she's pretty chill for a kitten, too, so she should fit right in."

"No more lonely Tama, ve~! He has a friend!" Feliciano smiled, rubbing the kitten's ears. It closed its eyes, purring. "I'll call her Precious!"

"Shouldn't she have a Japanese name?" Alfred suggested, amused.

"Oh, you're right. Sakura!"

"Did you ask Kiku if he wants another cat?" Lovino asked, petting the sleeping cats on the couch.

"No, I wanted it to be a surprise." Feliciano answered, tickling the kitten under the chin, and gigged when one of the others nibbled his ear.

Lovino frowned. "You should ask first." He pointed out. "What if he doesn't _want_ a kitten? It's a big responsibility, bastard."

"Nobody doesn't want a kitten." Feliciano said resolutely, making kissy-faces at the kittens.

"Yeah, but kittens turn into cats." Alfred said reasonably. "Lovino's right. You should ask Kiku first, and see if he wants another pet. Surprises are nice, but surprise pets aren't always a good idea. It's a lot of responsibility to spring on someone."

Feliciano pouted for a moment, but nodded. "Okay." He agreed. "I'll ask Kiku first. And he can come and meet her for himself, ve~. He'll want her, I'm sure!"

"Well if he does, he can pick her up in two weeks." Alfred said. "She'll be weaned by then. Right, 'Mano?"

"Yeah, that's okay." Lovino agreed, nodding only a little reluctantly.

"Okay~." Feliciano reached up to pet another kitten. "I wish we could keep them all, but with the cats and Ludwig's dog's we're already at the legal limit." He sighed, sitting up, and smiled. "But I can play with you all for a while, ve~!"

After some consideration, Kiku decided he did want another cat. He visited that weekend, and as Feliciano had anticipated, he fell in love with the gentle, tricolored kitten Feliciano had chosen for him, and made arrangements to pick her up at the end of a week and a half. (He did not, however, fall in love with the names Feliciano had chosen, opting instead to name her 'Mika').

Even though they both liked and trusted Kiku to take good care of Mika, the thought of giving another of their kittens away wasn't much easier the second time, and they spent the evening cuddling on the couch with the cats trying not to dwell on it and reminding each other that they saw Kiku pretty often, and sometimes babysat Tama when Kiku went out of town, so _obviously_ they'd see Mika sometimes, too. It wasn't like they were _really_ saying goodbye.

And they still had a week and a half with their babies, right?

Another four days passed, and the kittens were mostly eating solid food— cooked by Lovino, fresh fish or chicken or liver at every meal. With food like that they were weaned rather fast, much preferring Lovino's gourmet meals to plain milk. It was a bittersweet feeling watching them grow so quickly, but he liked seeing them eating his cooking with so much relish.

"No." Alfred said firmly, arms crossed.

"But—"

"No." Lovino scowled, arms likewise crossed. "Absolutely _not,_ bastard."

"Just—"

"I wouldn't trust you with a _pet rock_, let alone a kitten." Alfred said.

"Now—"

"You think I'm going to let you poison one of our babies with your terrible cooking?" Lovino demanded.

"Mew?" The final kitten, a little tabby with bright green eyes, stuck its head between the legs of the two men to see what was going on.

"Why, hello—"

"Stay away from the bad man, baby." Alfred looked down, nudging it back with a foot. "We'll protect you."

"Oh for— would you two please be _reasonable_." Arthur threw his arms in the air, frustrated. "You're acting like I'm some terrible kitten-eating monster."

"I've eaten your cooking." Alfred said dryly, looking back up.

"We're not going to put any kittens through that." Lovino agreed firmly.

"It won't even be eating my cooking!" Arthur protested. "Not that there's _anything wrong _with my cooking," he added, sniffing offendedly, "but Francis does most of the cooking, now. And when he doesn't, Antonio does. They won't even _let_ me in the kitchen anymore." He added under his breath, sulking slightly.

"Good for them." Lovino approved, and Alfred nodded wholeheartedly.

The kitten pushed between their legs again, interested in seeing the newcomer. Alfred nudged it back.

"I still wouldn't trust you to take care of a cat." Alfred reiterated. "Let alone a kitten. It's a _baby_. They need lots of care. And attention. And love and affection."

"I know that, I'm not an idiot." Arthur scowled. "I'm perfectly capable of providing those things."

Alfred and Lovino snorted simultaneously. The kitten pushed its way between their legs again, tumbling over Lovino's shoes. He nudged it back.

"And even if I wasn't capable— which I _am_—" Arthur continued, "it's not like I'm the only one around the house to attend to the creature."

Lovino narrowed his eyes, offended at having one of his babies referred to as a 'creature'. Alfred was bothered less, having been referred to as much worse by his old guardian; but neither of them were moved.

Arthur sighed, rufffling his hair. "If it helps, it's not even for _me_." He admitted. "I mean, I'd quite like a cat, if it came down to it, and so would Francis, but the main reason we've decided to get one is for _Antonio's _sake."

"What do you mean?" Lovino frowned. Alfred nudged the kitten back again, and it mao'd in protest.

"Well, it's like this," Arthur said, cheeks flushing a little as he layed it all out, "Francis and I can get quite busy at work sometimes— myself more than Francis, of course, but during his busy season his business can take up all of his time. And Antonio...well, Antonio's home all alone most of the day at those times. He gets...lonely. So Francis and I thought it might be nice if he had a pet to keep him company. And we're all rather fond of cats, so it seemed the ideal choice. And with our anniversary coming up, well...we'd thought to surprise him." He paused to gauge their reactions, and seeing Lovino's considering frown, followed it up with, "So I wouldn't even be taking care of it, most of the time. Antonio would. Francis and I would do our part, of course, we shan't neglect the creature, but most of its time will be spent home with Antonio."

Alfred pursed his lips consideringly, and turned to Lovino. "It's up to you." He said, knowing Lovino's fondness for his oldest friend.

Lovino frowned deeper. He didn't care for Arthur at all, and didn't like Francis much, either, but he hated thinking of Antonio being lonely...

The kitten pushed its way through their legs, bounding determinedly up to the Englishman, going up on its hindpaws to put its forepaws on his legs and mewled up at him. He looked surprised for a moment, then blushed, kneeling down a little awkwardly to pet it. "Hello, puss," he said softly, looking flattered at its attention. "You're a fine fellow, aren't you." His eyes widened, mesmerized when it leaned its head into his touch affectionately, and gave a little purring mewl, and they both saw him fall in love with the tiny creature.

"Well, fuck." Alfred said, a little dismayed, and Lovino agreed wholeheartedly.

"Alright bastard." He said. "You can pick him up in a week. But you'd better take good care of him, or..."

"Of course." Arthur nodded, and looked up at them, smiling. "Thank you. Both of you."

Alfred sighed, leaning against the doorframe, smiling a little resignedly. "So what're you going to call him?"

"I'm not sure." Arthur looked down at the little kitten, stroking it gently. "Bard, perhaps. For Shakespeare."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"You'd better take good care of them, bastards!" Lovino yelled, hanging out of the door.

"Call if _anything_ goes wrong!" Alfred called, waving. "Or if you have any questions! Anytime of the day or night!"

"Bard doesn't like goose liver!" Lovino yelled. "And Mika's scared of thunderstorms, got it? And Friedrich likes to be sung to sleep!"

"Don't hesitate to let us know if you have _any_ problems!" Alfred called. "If you decide it's too much for you and you can't take care of them, we'll take them back, okay?"

"They like to be cuddled, okay?" Lovino yelled, wiping his eyes. "And, and, they'll need to sleep with you at night!"

"Goodbye, babies!" Alfred called, voice breaking a little. "We'll miss you!"

"We'll take good care of him, I promise." Matthew assured him, smiling as he opened the car door.

"Yeah, sure thing!" Gilbert affirmed, already in the passenger seat, playing with the kitten in his arms. "HE'S GONNA LOVE LIVING IN OUR AWESOME HOUSE!"

Kiku only smiled sympathetically as he pulled the seatbelt over Mika's cat carrier to secure it. "I'll send you pictures," he said, waving goodbye, "and update her status on my blog, so you'll know how she is doing."

"Don't worry about a _thing_, Lovi!" Antonio called, nuzzling his kitten. "I'll take good care of Bard, you'll see! He's so cuuute! I'll feed him lots of treats every day! And all the cream he can drink!"

"If you do that he's going to get fat." Francis told him, smiling as he leaned over Antonio's shoulder to tickle the kitten's ears.

"That would be _adorable."_ Antonio mooned, burying his face in the kitten's fur.

"Would you two get in the car so we can get _going?"_ Arthur called from the driver's seat. "We have a long drive ahead of us!"

"Yes, yes." Francis responded, ushering Antonio into his seat and closing the door. "Just be honest and say you want to get home so you can play with the kitten, too."

"Sh-shut up and get in the car!"

"Goodbye!" Lovino and Alfred waved farewell to their kittens as the various vehicles departed. "We love you!"

Once the last car was out of sight, Lovino's arm dropped limply to his side. Alfred lowered his more slowly, wrapping it around his husband's shoulders.

"C'mon," he said eventually, voice rough. "We should...go inside. Let the cats out."

Lovino nodded, turning wordlessly, and they shut the door behind them. They hadn't gone three steps before a choking sob escaped him, and Alfred pulled him into his arms, burying his face in his hair as he broke down, too. They clung to each other until long after their sobs ceased, taking comfort from each other's closeness and shared pain. Finally Alfred pulled back a little, sniffling, and cupped Lovino's face when he looked up, leaning down to kiss his flushed cheeks, his forehead, and press a lingering kiss to his lips.

"I love you." He murmured. "More than anything."

Lovino flushed, leaning up to press a kiss of his own to Alfred's mouth. "Love you too, bastard." He confessed, and buried his face in Alfred's neck, wrapping his arms tightly around it. "Let's never do that again."

Alfred huffed a little laugh, rubbing Lovino's back. "Raise kittens, you mean?"

"No," Lovino said, his voice muffled by Alfred's shirt. "Raising them was fine. It's the giving them away that sucks."

Alfred chuckled, kissing his hair. "Yeah. You're right." He squeezed his husband comfortingly. "So, what'll we do if we ever find anymore kittens? Move to the country and become crazy cat people?"

"That sounds about right." Lovino agreed, smiling a little. He pulled back, kissing Alfred's cheek. "Works for me."

"Sounds like a plan." Alfred smiled back, and jerked his head towards the stair. "C'mon, we've got a couple of babies upstairs who need some attention. They've been locked in the bedroom for the last few hours."

"Yeah." Lovino agreed, pulling back and wiping his eyes with one hand, taking Alfred's with the other. "They're gonna be _pissed_ when they find out what we've done."

"Well, they're cats," Alfred said reasonably. "I think kittens growing up and leaving comes a little more naturally to them."

"They'll still be upset." Lovino pointed out, and Alfred nodded, knowing he was right.

"Extra cuddles for everyone tonight, then." He smiled, kissing Lovino's knuckles. "And maybe for a while. The next few days, at least."

"Crazy cat people is sounding better all the time." Lovino muttered, following him up the stairs.

"I like the way you think." Alfred grinned, leaning in to kiss his cheek, as well. "I'll start scoping out farms tomorrow."

"We both will." Lovino corrected, lips twitching up a little. "And we'll find someplace where we can grow tomatoes, and keep loads of animals. Maybe even llamas."

"_God_ I love you." Alfred said fervently, and grinned, scooping him up in his arms and carrying him up the stairs. "How 'bout this: we'll go upstairs and let the cats out, cuddle all night, look for a farm tomorrow, move to the country and grow tomatoes and llamas and raise all the kittens or any other animals we find and love each other for the rest of eternity, whattya think?"

"Sounds like a good plan to me, bastard." Lovino smiled, cupping Alfred's face and leaning in for a kiss. "Sounds like a damn good plan."

* * *

><p><em>AN: It ended so cheesy, so cheesy, but I can totally see them moving to a farm and gardening and raising all the foundlings their hearts desire and Armstrong and Alfred bring home, eventually expanding to fostering and adopting children and just generally reveling in the life.<br>_

_I've always wanted to do an established relationship fic, and I suppose this was my first shot at it. And I bypassed dating and went straight into marriage, because yes.  
><em>

_The only cat named in Himaruya's canon is Gino, North Italy's cat/North Italy Cat. I took the liberty of devising names for the other cats, based on research of common cat names in each country, historical figures, and consideration of the nations' personalities. These are purely my choices, I won't complain if you don't like them.  
><em>

_This story actually came out a lot shorter than I'd originally planned, but I'm not complaining about that! It's nice to write a fic that doesn't expand from a oneshot into an ever-expanding epic, from time to time. _

_I hope you enjoyed it, and this finds you well, and in good health and spirits! _


	15. On the Brink

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

_Posting this to both tumblr and ffnet, which I don't like to do (I prefer to post to one or the other), but I figured at least it would let you know I haven't disappeared into the ether. _

_Part of a series of prompts I accepted from friends in an attempt to jump-start my writing. They gave me a list of words, I take one word and write pretty much whatever comes to mind when I think of it. Oddly enough, even though this prompt wasn't near the first on the list it's the first one I came up with something for. _

* * *

><p>They say 'Parting is such sweet sorrow'.<p>

They lie.

The ache in his heart is anything but sweet, and it only grows with each passing moment as he tries to stave off 'goodbye'.

"Don't go. _Please_, America." His voice is rough, breaking, and Romano knows he's begging, but he doesn't care. "Don't leave me, please. I-I'll do anything." His fingers are twisted so tightly in America's shirt that the fabric is cutting off his circulation. It hurts too much to let go. "Just, don't leave me."

He has his answer as America's already pained expression tightens at his words.

"Romano," America's voice is sorrowful but firm, blue eyes are full of apology and regret as he covers Romano's hands with his own, gently— he's always gentle with Romano, always, even now when he's breaking his heart— prying trembling fingers loose from his shirt. "You know I can't stay."

But Romano isn't one to let go so easily, so he pulls his hands free and grabs the back of America's neck, pulling him down 'til their foreheads meet, holding fast. "Write to me. You'd better fucking write. And call too, you stupid fucking bastard, you hear me?"

"I hear," America closes his eyes, his hands coming up instinctively to cup Romano's cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears that Romano didn't even know he was shedding, "and I will. Whenever I can."

They both know any communication between them will be sparse. America will keep his promise, but communications from the front have been sporadic at best since they've had to resort to traditional post, and radio calls were banned outside of special allotment, because of the risk they posed. Letters from America may never arrive, and if— when— he manages to get a radio allotment and make a call, they'll have to be careful what they say. Every word will be monitored, and anyone could be listening in.

"I hate you for this." Romano says, and almost wishes he could. "I hate this stupid war. I hate it for taking you from me. I hate you for leaving. I hate this. I hate this _so much_. I —" He chokes on a sob, unable to finish. The warmth of America's hands leave his face, and he presses it gratefully into America's shoulder when strong arms wrap around his waist to draw him close.

"Shhh," America soothes, pressing kisses to his hair, rubbing his back. "Shh, I know. I hate it too. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you, Romano. I love you so much. I don't want to leave. But I have to. I _have_ to," he insists, earnest and serious, when Romano pulls back, mouth open to argue. "Some things need to be fought for, Romano. Or against." He adds, eyes hardening.

Romano closes his mouth, frowning, but doesn't say anything. Deep down, he knows America's right, this time.

It doesn't make things any easier.

Someone calls to America, letting him know it's time to go, and America nods to them over his shoulder before turning back to Romano to say goodbye. Whatever he's about to say is cut off when Romano yanks him down by the collar, kissing him fiercely.

"You come back to me, you bastard." He demands once they part. "Don't you dare fucking die on me."

America hesitates, and Romano's heart stops, stomach dropping through the floor.

America isn't sure. America, _his_ America, his sunny, 'against all odds', idealistic 'anything's possible if you believe it' America isn't sure if he'll survive. Romano knew things were bad, but he didn't realise it was _this_ bad. America's idealistic, but he's not unintelligent, and his information networks are some of the best in the world. If America thinks there's even a _possibility_ he won't make it through, then it's probably closer to what anyone else would consider a _certainty_.

"Romano," through the haze of shock his mind is reeling in he hears America saying urgently, "no matter what happens, I want you to know, I love you more than anything else in this world. You've made me very happy, Romano, and I'll do everything in my power to come back to you. I have to go now." He adds, pressing a hasty, fervent kiss to Romano's lips— Romano's too shocked to do anything but respond automatically— before pulling away, "I love you, Romano. I love you _so much_. Goodbye."

He leaves, and Romano watches him go, a strange sense of deja vu at the sight of America's broad back growing further away as the other nation leaves for war. How many times has he been left behind like this, to sit and wait in relative safety while someone he loves leaves to fight a war they might not return from? Too many to count.

He's always hated it. The uncertainty, the worry, the loneliness. The _not knowing_, the pit of fear and dread in his stomach that never goes away until they return, safe and sound once more.

Romano knows he's a coward. Always has been. He's not proud of it, but he's not ashamed of it, either. It's how he's survived this long. He and his brother have managed to stay out of the conflict thus far, and he'd like to keep it that way.

America didn't even ask him to join him, this time— unlike all the other wars America's been in— which he'd been surprised and relieved by; but now he realises that America didn't ask him to join this time because America doesn't think he can protect him, because America doesn't expect to survive this war.

Romano watches America walk away, and realises that this could truly be the last time he sees him.

Panick fills him, and he starts to run. "Wait! America, WAIT!"

In the distance, America glances back, and turns. Romano can't see his face clearly from here, but he knows he's frowning in concern, assuming something is wrong.

America's pretty far off, and he's got a long way to run, but Romano's good at running. He's been doing it all his life.

And this time, America is waiting for him.

"What—?" America starts to ask as soon as he draws level.

"I'm going with you." Romano pants breathlessly, and grabs America's hand, lacing their fingers together. "Wherever you go, I'm going too." America's brows furrow, and Romano knows he's about to protest, to insist that he stay behind where it's safe, so he cuts him off determinedy, "No matter what happens," he says, searching America's eyes, willing him to understand, "we'll go together."

America looks at him, and down to their joined hands, and back up, clearly thinking. Slowly, he nods, and almost-smiles. "Okay." He agrees softly, squeezing Romano's hand. Romano pulls out his cell phone as they fall into step, hand-in-hand, and dials.

"Veneziano," he tells his brother seriously. "We're going to war."

Romano knows he's a coward. But he's come to realise what he's most afraid of- what would hurt the most- is a life without America.

* * *

><p><em>AN: So there you go. The prompt for this one: 'Pain'. <em>


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